He
went to rehab, to thirst for nothing, to indulge years of sobriety. It took
a
glimpse, a tiny swig, to float through twilight. The soul watched, to
partake
of debauchery, flailed inside. He wrote with message, a bit tangy,
to
sting a cobra. He pulled back, for three months dry, romanticizing life.
Oh
the dregs, for ghetto dreams, plus for heartaches. We see it blankly,
a
seasoned scar, to mature with love; for such is paradox, never to do to
others,
that done to self. The channels churn, to brave introjects, aloof to
déjà
vu; for times are silent, to speak a sub-current, to listen intently;
else
to crash, adrift the streets, to love a stranger; where lev is broken, to
scorn
a breath, for childhood pains. He raced a dungeon, to mirror scars,
for
painted fantasy. He saw for beauty, a new world, featured in vagueness.
His
portrait morphed, to polish dreams, to possess a legacy. Oh the music,
using
liquor, as animated as cartoons; but not for happy, for such a let
down,
as brittle as resistance. The seconds would mock, to reap a heart,
as
full as a concept; but not for muddy, but ever for texture, gazing at
pearls.
He knew from distance, the ache of closeness, for unqualified; but
ever
gray, a flame for souls, striving for reasons; but never could, to find
for
answers, to tiptoe philosophy. He fell a nightmare, to witness it
crumble,
a false world of structure; where earth appeared, embodied in
love,
for reaching forward. The bond broke, for different a soul, to
calculate
tomorrow; for rain morphs, an attic storm, to whisper grays.
