So
many parallels, for budlike trauma, to vacuum mirrors.
I’m
somewhere low, asearch a canopy, jingling sorrow.
“It
a be alright,” I utter—and vanish my cries. Such
distress,
a desolate soul, digging pits. It’s my season, to
feel
decay, for dusty winds, to breach dusky skies.
I’m somewhere low, to ponder your
hand, open
and
empty. I cry—to remember, a foolish pledge. I spurn
a
feeling, to grip abyss, a drilling gothic. I pace a lap, to
shake
debris, to hear your voice; and all alone, to reckon
mishaps,
and fallen bridges. I’m not fit, to lace a sandal,
mourning
his plight. It’s a must, where spirit
growls,
roaring
a midnight moon. I’ve fallin’—unto to rise, a tab
bit
callous. I check in, to feel a grin, where sin’s in
session.
Oh the ruins, a past riddled—with deep regret; and
how
for thought, to walk it so lazy, a bit un-attentive. Wings
are
broken, in need of bone, to flee a plague. What desire,
for
tribal instincts, to phone a healing; and more to God, to
sit
in stillness, as close as distance, as near as prayer.
What for purpose, and driven skills,
and mystic rills?
I
ask—for suggestions, to feel a bit different; and oh for
cycles,
and cyclones, and ice cream cones. I’m deep into,
and
only us, to point to others. She’s close enough, a grand
entrustment,
and quite distinctive. I speak of grays, to utter
but
a fraction, to piggy tail literature. It’s but insane, to
speak
it new, to rules complaisant; and back to sorrow, a bit
creative,
and ever cautious. How to live it, incessant joy, a
vest
of mixed colors. It’s said to face it, every time, as vivid
as
pollen. I reappear, to banish hives, as crucial as penchant
woes.
Oh the seaweed, a state afoul, an inward segue; and
more to palms, open
and empty, to sit through trauma.
