Its
black to white, for white to gray, a season of betweens.
Its
swan to flame, a vetted chant, to rant the regions. We
saw
it slipping, to utter ought, as vague as colors. I birth
to
perish, to flourish a life, afflicted with pash. It’s a rose—
to
speak for bleeding, to live it mystic. I thought your
soul,
to float your vice, heavy at a river. You gave so
much,
through rapes and deaths, to skate like freedom. I
fell
a cliff, a bipolar gem, steady at a hem. We painted
violence,
a touch for bars, and fevered scars; and nothing
lived,
to ever live, a house for haunted. I drive it local, as
foreign
as dreams, an addict’s son. It’s more a climb, to
soar
the grief, enlove with a second gray. The nights are
flavored,
to push for chi, aware in stillness; and was it you,
to
flit a heart, through a front door? I spoke a riddle, to see
for
chains, alive come soul-aches. My
dearest wave, a
shout
of woes, a mind of joys. The ocean’s green, for deep
within,
to travel come stars. It’s a sphinxly world, to
oversee,
to map each breath; else a storm, to chant come
dawn,
a stranger to a mirror. We filter threads, to vacant
seams,
knitted to emotion. I want you found, the lightest
lumber,
rinsed and surfing.
