It’s
heady to ponder
a
web of mothers
to
grind death
and
barely a breath. I’m found, and more
abyss, to kiss a
pencil.
Where is freedom, an absolute, and not for vague?
He
knew for good
a
deep relation
founded
on perception. I want it more, to
know for pain,
to
reach illusion. We conjure ghosts, to
maintain
distance,
afraid of image. I love it born, a
young throttle,
to
shape for winds. I didn’t raise it, a
scarecrow cry, to
fountain
crows; and all for hell, a patient tear, four floors
aglow;
plus a life, hidden from psychs, to mold a
phantom;
and all the more, a deep delusion, a fiend for
music. Where is sense, to scream confusion, three
beers
in;
and all for love, an equal nature, to feud wages. I knew
to
crave it, a bit of poetry, a force of therapy; and light a
soul,
a mind of photos, to reap for beauty.
