We
want for beige moons forever where bourbon stars spill
into
garnet souls. We stress silken frowns ever to chide an
inner
imp. I was for mountains a stream of furnaces
chiming
through electric winds. Oh so abstract—to fall a
stranger’s
soul gritting through a blackdamp. I’ve thought
of
you surfing through seas of memoirs a bit possessed,
where
I feel of others the screeching task of forfeiting I.
Years
have stapled souls sullen through marsh scraping
farewells.
I must omit and [and] or kneeling for knocking ere
a
keel. Why for such love a vat of words focused on sacrificing
the? We live it for
advantage to bookcase a storehouse of
extinguishers.
I see for symbol a red hair girl sitting in a
village
sketching a passerby. I ask for paint to lack a brush,
where
such a soul etches our words. We art for names to
trickle
a treasure airborne a delusion. I appear to self lost in
a
woman’s forest sprinkling branches. We venture this sylvan
alive
in parts, where tomorrow is metaphor for a wedge of
webs;
for prose peeks into psyches, to dredge to surface a
hosts
of departed demons.
