I
love like patience, a pious soul, filled with qualms. I was
there,
to garner riches, a poet’s radix, seeping into demons.
We
speak it rarely, a terrified heart, and loud sirens. I cried
when
Brooks passed, to savor moments, partly demented.
It’s
something psychotic, to climb pressures, ignoring
hell;
and more to psychs, and target behavior, gripping
wheat
bread; for soaked a liver, tipsy and falling, running
from
prison. I was there, to witness a tumble, and
melodramatic.
Life is gremlins, and ex-affairs, and pious
souls.
I hold it back, to whisk a feeling, to type a soldier.
We
met for dislike, to chide in secret, to drip through
prose.
I was there, to take a bullet, watching as we fell.
It
was more the life, redeemed slowly, enlove with God.
We
phantom graves, to pull the dead, for he’s a soldier.
I
was there, to panic sin, leaping gates. I lost a friend, to
stagger
psychotic, pulling at Pac. I sheltered demons, a
tad
bit evil, as humble as priests; but more to life, a
gnawing trial, to
lure a soldier.
