I
tussle with demons; something inward and mocking.
I
feel persons, to wander eyes, projecting doubts. We need
this
feeling, weary for practice; where breath—to fumble words,
to
perish this growth through symbols. Its gray events, a felt
unborn,
streaking static-cries through caves. We churn truth, a
vatic
ruth, burdened through briers. I trace a line, a
prophetic
palm,
feeling for futures. You perish such
pain; a soul
flinching;
as noble as signet rings. I vow—a scripted sky,
silent
with fever. You tug a rib, to give it back, afraid to furnace
alone. Its midnight angst, for a.m. blues, rain
abated by
flowers.
Its leaky boats and steel pails to bucket water. It’s
hellish
routine, to grow for wisdom, to trophy the grand
bucket.
I
wrestle with ghosts; features of a mind, slanted for
ancient;
and desert wails, to grog for pressure, arrive before
sunup;
and days for paradox, to grapple with anchors, a belt of
seasoned
perceptions. I see for joy, a
mourning groan, to
know
for cycles.
