Its
opus gripes, morning liquor, for burning candles. I wrestle
a phantom,
a bit impatient, a mental disease. The lights are
slanted,
for popping pills, three rills into a nightmare. It
troubles
ethos; for claims are made, from a troubled mind;
but
ever to search, a subtle whisper, where kingdoms
formed.
I met a thought, a mystic thought, eager to vanish;
but
self is close, despite the wine, peering at images. “Is
that
me”: ranting for raving, to shatter a window, dying for
ethos?
Such irony, to charge one event, probing for anger; but
ever
a course, to dull a spear, at such a distance. I love it
more,
an awkward bond, cemented in static; but not for brick,
but
rather chi, aware of slight concern. We watch it, to tune in,
sparking
fireworks. I can’t escape, the years of rain, to plague
a
soul. Its refills, ink to paper, for a furnace heart. Invest in
power,
to reap a fortune, to chastise inwardly; for there’s a star,
to
reckon soul, a need for solace. I’m more a flame, a biblic
grain,
enlove with a sickle. Was it us, to live the pain,
addicted
to narcotics? I fault us not, to scrape a sky, to feel
alone.
It’s sip to sip, a need for more, afraid of such thoughts. I
offer
this, the mind is jewel, to root a cliché. I loved for love, a
yacht
of styles, as sober as newborn kittens.
The
mind’s awake, a flutter subtle, to fall back for years. We
ever
watched, an essay slant, to maintain distance. It cuts the
soul,
to snap a pencil, while sipping coffee. I say it often, a torn
regret,
pleading for ethos; and not for logos; and not for pathos;
but
rather ethos.
I
disappear, jotting lines, a gnome at a coffee shop. The earth
is
flares, streaking through hearts, to flicker a flame; but want
for
little, to feel for joy, aligned in finances; else for sores, a
grieving
arm, to shatter mirrors.
