I’m
a bit somber, to ponder the sullen, a sad vessel. I need
for
joy, to pound a front door, to meet a tease. It’s ever
this
night, a subtle ripple, to swell a heart-cave. We live
it
gray, to vintage pain, to pencil pride. Love is anchor,
to
stream a soul, a stately grin. I remember—for warmth,
a
fleeting quilt; and die this flight, to filter flares, a
poet’s
hangover. I’m there, to hold a hand, speaking
kindly;
but more astir, a rabid ink, mourning softly. It
was
me—to venture, and love a myth. I saw wisdom, to
sculpt
for pash, to hope for dreams; but deep a grave, to
channel
souls, for a well within; and more, I pine and peel,
to
touch a calf, and pinch an ankle. Days are gloom, a felt
reply,
pausing for a roadrunner. I’m found for lost, to
strike
a cigar, sipping upon life. I’m lost for found, to stir
for
gems, reaping a harvest. It’s a heartbeat, even a secret,
to
wrestle forces. Music is there, to move a mountain, and
usher
a pain. I hear it, a shadow of thoughts, a pregnant
vibe.
I feel it, a sullen glow, the grit of grass; for rain is
pouring, and eyes are
weary, to wax a welt.
