It
was sudden to find self, where said found me, to adjudge mixtures.
I
float and drift, to kiss a dream, and tattooed gears. I see you come
self,
speeding through vectors, a lecture a day early. I’m racing
through
tunnels, to pause at lights, to rise where demons failed. It’s
life
for strength, to feel for weak, a countenance vexed; and more
for
strong, perfected sorely, to know for rebukes. I felt a wave, for ears
alive,
to see the lotus. It’s more nirvana, a second in a minute, to
culture
souls; and maybe more, a deep enchant, to cross the bridge.
I
hear for whirls, the growth of souls, sullen and sipping coffee; and
torn
with joy, a bit for twain. Its light for dark, and dark for light, to
tug
at all forces. The source is passion, to strive and laugh, a bit for
pure.
If only love, to conquer foibles, to reach past folly; but floored to
hate,
to ask forgiveness, and give for none. It’s a classic life, to give a
death,
while snatching life. I mourn for lots, afflux a moon, falling
afloat.
The stars are crying, where dinner is served, a carpet is grieving.
Indeed—for
trampled, a muffled cry; for sheep are torn, where tears
are
fluid, to feel a healing. I purchased paper, to trace for sculptures,
to
call for Rembrandt; but life is hectic, a loss of patience, a need for
letters;
and yes to perish, an empty cave, to finger a wound. I thought
my
lot, a vest of mercy, to rebuild an angel; and evil lied, a deep abyss,
to
feel it as Job. There’s a key for souls, to chase come sun, the parish
of
eyes; and nights are short, lost in visions, to trek through minds; and
more
your heart, covered in fissions, to match through darkness; for
times
were bold, to scold a friend, to know but a fraction; but “If not
me,
than all is well,” a season of wooded briers. I try for laughs, the
sadness
of clowns, feeding pigeons; and see for squirrels, spinning
sorrow,
to show affectation; and more attrition, to wrestle gestures, a
life
of specters; for something died, where something morphed, a
whisper in a cave; so
life’s a cloak, to bandage wounds, ten floors high.
