He
lost emotion, to struggle years, a bit blunted; and now to
feel,
for a broken dam, to trickle like lava. The thorns are
vivid,
smiling through liquor, a sore impression; and more
for
conflict, a morning heavy, to flicker cigars,
steeped
in prayer!
The
forest is walking. The trees are barking. A ghost is
coughing.
He sees it hazily, a portrait on a pond. Something
speaks,
a book of feelings, to blunt the fractures. Its putty for
cracks,
and paint for graffiti, carving impressions,
steeped
in prayer!
He
set a journey, to build for blocks, to uproot a fence; and
hear
for sirens, to follow gunshots, to buff concrete. The
earth
has noticed, where soil cringes, to pull at bones. Pages
are
screaming, for bleeding wit, for crying brows,
steeped
in prayer!
