Such
a saintlike mare, with starry scars, sealed secluded
and
stressed. I offer soul, and dearly seared, severed
deeply.
I’m leaking, to chant a name, and paste a wound.
There’s
a dream, a running hurdle, as holy as music. I
reach
to poets, to miss a mark, cleaving to allusions.
Its
midnight trauma, and prosaic screams, pushing
penmanship.
Its memoir scars, drained and sober, reading
Jericho.
I’m two grays in, to ponder dungeons, and
feel
for lonesome. She grabbed a rasp, to chase a fly,
to
strike for treasures. I laughed with joy, for something
rich,
reading Traci; and something deep, a wailing song,
where
tears drip. I thought of Lana and Beyoncè to
love
for something so deep. It’s ever a voice, a must
reveal,
fixing futures. Oh for nibs, and cryptic paper, to
strengthen
souls. I’m lost and found, and ever strutting,
subject
to scars. Mother studded pain, and dripped sorrow,
scrapping
for souls. I hear a word, and see a ghost,
fleeing
from a mirror. I walk through, to bind heart,
deeply
ensouled.
