Are we—to live it, a tad bit embarrassed? We find it, to
need
it, to feign nonchalance. A tender traffic, to alter
neurotransmitters,
to bleach a thought. “I liked him, ere
I
thought, a bit bourgeois.” We bake it gold, and boil
souls,
scolded by dreams. “She’s not us,” and left unseen,
to
wrestle a demon; plus together, as radiant as fireflies.
I
made a kite, the winds for tear, and mother cried.
What
for symbol, a moment of flight, and torn asunder!
A
woman chided—a local stranger, estranged from
self.
We rolled an ounce, in phillie blunts, to gamble a
membrane;
a thin layer, to part psychoses, lying and
sinning.
“He’s a bit different, plus a white woman, oh
for
mercy.” I see it often, a reason to separate, as spent
as
game tables. We packed a box, to solder secrets, to
lose
sunlight. Indeed—for weary years, and postcards.
There’s
a work, the art of music, to drill a soul; and
there’s
a poem, the art of words, to seal a soul; and all for
channel,
semi-ecstatic, streaming through silent vocals.
