The
melody is soft, where Lana sings. I get lost, a mellow
fever.
Life is miracles, where a child is shot, thrumming
through
a ghetto. She makes it home, where mother wails,
a
hand full of blood. I reminisce, to touch this space,
found
through souls. Grandma’s a legend, even a legacy,
kneeling
in heaven. Mother tried, to mold a man, where
still
a ghost. There’s a trickle, a touch of fey, streaming
through
hearts. I felt it hit, a spirit’s chi, something
religious.
We trek down Avalon, taking snapshots, peering
into
trauma. How to live, a dying life, as joyful as pigeons?
The
tides are slanted, to favor resilience, where death is
living
riches. It doesn’t matter, the depth of bliss, I
return
to melancholy. Is this for soul, a violet shroud, a
rose
for a beating heart? It’s mountain to mountain, hiking
through
gestures. It’s easy to F a day, dreaming away. “If
only
this or that,” where that comes, to flood a paining
valve.
I love for love, a turning clock, to strike for tulips.
We
perish, to grow a soul, to tip for scales. I’m ever human,
to
live through you, as cautious as artists.
Let it be for freedom, her tender
eyes, grieving his
heart;
where mother fought, nearly beat to death. I can’t
forget,
to witness blows, for speaking back. I live it easy,
for
something rough, afraid to confide. We did it us, to face
for
demons, eight shots in. Now more illusion, to feel her
pulse,
for something unreal; where love rises, to sketch a
canvas,
crying her name; plus a girl, to witness life, for
much
ado. I found heart, a mystic throne, to touch a
naked
soul. We die with grace, walking through San Pedro,
ever
for homage. I keep it silent, to touch a grave, deeply
moved;
for life is beige, a bit in between, trekking through
orange
lights. Oh for music, to die for depth, to ponder a
swan.
I see it true, a mystic palm, reaching for souls; for
love
is rich, to scrape for clouds, retrieving angels.
