It’s
for sickness, the richest tempo, to drift and shunned. He
blazes,
to trip for wires, to cry cartoons. Something for
death,
a wicked whiff, to call her father; and stars, to dig for
depth,
to plummet hell. What for rain, waist high to fly,
grieving
Moses. He lost it, for she died, and father was mother.
The
land was sulfur, livid to languish, eye to eye her husband.
She
groaned, to clutch for stomach, two months pregnant;
and
what the river, for marsh and blood, and mental madness.
He
died manners, a tad bit mannish, to measure liquor. A
woman
lied, to seek a fortune, for ghostly hills. He listened
life,
for wretched low, to purchase a dream. It’s more the
falls,
to swoosh a fever, dripping with germs; and she wanted
germs,
as close as skin, to rub for scales. He cried it flame, a
birth
for spirit, to touch and rustle mud. So for inches, a
beating
womb, a husband’s eyes. He loved her raw, a liquid
soul,
merging her heart; and ever proud, a newborn son, to
reap
for names. She took for grit, stitched and patched, and
gripping
sheets. The world is mush, the taste of mustered, to
sting
a mother. Its life a debt, and fully scarred, to tattoo a
scream.
Oh the beat, as wild as tribes, to gut a wolf. He spoke
it
blue, a shaman’s tears, the terror of tantrums. Oh for
desert,
dearly weaved, to love a pregnant fever. He died the
night,
to next a life, knitted and numb. The war was self,
shelved
and sullen, drifting through frequencies. A baby
laughed,
to reach a nose, and grip. She fell tears, something
post,
and sore depressed. What for peace, to pop for knuckles,
scribing mirrors.
It’s ever mental, a magnet maze, sipping fear.
