I’m
dark enough, and seeming darker, to fret for freedom;
but
how escape, a mirror of darkness, haunted for holy?
If
only life, a flood of riches, and every plague; but oh the
motion,
to tend a garden, to wrestle ghosts; and whom to see,
flickering
dimly, a heart of vibrations. Such for sweetness,
a
swan’s song, diving to swim. We knew it coming, the
end
of times, a storm of silence; and who was I, to grip
for
life, a freedom’s fish? I love it more, in retrospect, and
something
foggy. We die to pages, to live the margins,
shifting
through detriments. I hope a healing, for somewhat
wretched,
to patience such death. The old must fall,
stripping
and stressing, and ever for chastise. I see it in
grays,
an in between, soothing welts. It’s ever a mind,
chiming
to winds, afraid to speak it; and more a curse, as
crooked
as time, to flame a rush. The heart is howling, a
symbol’s
music, an inner séance; so love for more, to die
for
love, if not but once; for what to fear, and ever invest,
a
currency wild; for life is vision, and partial pains, the
grains
of summer. I thought to live, to approach a face,
afraid
to speak it. I felt to die, to cringe a thought, scraping
at
tomorrow. I’m dark enough, and seeming darker, to
fret
for freedom; for life is tan, an in between, to trek for
ghostly;
and what to give, to sit it tipsy, raking a heartbeat;
for
eczema flares, a furry of nerves, as gutty as cramps;
and
still to move, and pluck for petals, warring gremlins.
The
earth is turquoise, a false to live, stirring nightmares.
We
paint it checkered, and bouncing pieces, a bit
unwelcomed.
Oh for stars, a tear of cherries, to furnace a
lovelock; for death
is darkness, a gothic rill, to seal a soul.
