We
wrestle keenly, through shifts and burns, churning for
glory.
We die to self, reading St. Paul, to gain insights. I feel
carved,
where chunks perish, nude on center stage. The
world
is watching, a fragile scene, applauding triumph. The
play
is motion, where pressure mocks, while time is in for
out.
Payday is noon breath, a knocking hand, increasing
intensity.
There’s an organ, even a phantom, an inversion
of
mind. He pulls the curtain, and speaks:
“We watch with dismay, an inner
verge, even
borders of a complex. Today it’s me,
to rummage hell,
for three breaths of freedom.
Indeed, you know of me,
an empty mirror. We search a
blemish; till an image;
and thread emotion. The tides are
high, for surfing souls,
twisting through currents. Our
stomachs growl, faced
with seaweed, and gripping sand. I
see a maze, as wide
as labyrinth, as cold as strangers.”
Eyes
are focused, to a spear in hand, thrusting a pillow; and what
for
symbol, but inner edges, stitching pieces of self.
