We
hear us—for weeping, rotten for joy. What was
it,
to placate madness, steeped in sadness, to court for
gladness?
She’s so elusive, to rest in soundness, where
much
is unsound. We fade, a long time standing, to
muse
a chain. We wail, draped in silence, somewhat
pierced.
We loved her, dying softly, to call for, Ma. We
couldn’t
for change, far too soon, to ignite a flame. She
parted
sickly, a swift return, a baby’s eyes. We float
freely,
to ponder a professor, knee high in riddles.
Find
us slanted, mystic manics, to die through sorrow.
What
for heart, to praise for music, found secluded.
Its
midnight stars, to scrape souls, for iconic flights.
Its
daylight scars, buried deep, to fuse militias. Some
are
fixed, blurred for vision, as closed as politicians.
We
pray, settled upon friction, to wrestle sleepless. He
loved
to see her, afraid to speak, pulled from a crowd.
He
thought left, to appear right, a tormented soul; but
life
is rainbows, assorted colors, to compact fevers. We
sort
for berries, to stir for wine, if only one breath. He
thought
to feel, steeped in anger, to shatter fiberglass.
What
for healing, mental bars, staring at a tower?
Scalps
are dry, a clogged follicle, crying for freedoms.
We
live it, running from thoughts, to embrace ulcers.
Love
is soothing, if love is given, else a nightmare.
Thus
for mission, to silence deaths, cleaving to light.
