He
dreams a vision, a bulwark vision, and encounters visions.
Life
is sullen a day, a mirrored force, gripping a pants’ leg.
He
rubs up—for down, shaking pills. If only a heart, to see
for
plight, reaching for skies. Days are haunted, to blare
Rihanna,
needled with splinters. He’s a thousand theories,
and
screaming, “Why,” two pits a death. Oh for unborn,
peering
at wombs, to choose a mother. He envies it not, to
dig
for trenches, enlove with love. Nights are waves, for
soaring
hearts, written in psyches. He feels a pulse, a tad bit
dazed,
for childhood pictures. He knows her eyes, to glare
in
mirrors, to carry her illness. The weeks are fey, for
months
of forces, to renew annually; and what for music,
to
scrape for souls, a man partly dull. The earth has paused,
a
daughter laughs, as loud as an inner wound. He’s purple a
tear,
as beige as winds, to remember a summer. He thought
to
smile, and kneed the floor, speaking in similes; for pain
is
rivers, and dark denims, for tea time blues; and what for
passion,
to barely die, alive in parts. He hassles not, for
life
raptures, where feelings blurt a prayer.
