Valley Nights

We can’t explain it, although we try, a weary batch of souls. We ask forgiveness,

to repeat infractions, where some are dying.     How for this life, grounded in venom,

to blossom into a lotus!     More for thumping hearts, to feel a wave, to know for

you; and more forgiveness, to chant for clarity, a brief escape.     I died there, treated

as dogwood, and found guilty.     How for this life, afflicted with poison, a deep

offense!     I trek a mental valley, and converse with souls, but solace is bleak.     You’re

not alone, to crave alone, to die alone; for life is brimming, to flourish knowledge, to

accumulate wisdom.     I rivet a prayer, to ask for guidance, to wrestle a badger.     Often

for death, a stubborn wave, to ski through sleet.     I think for yore, a childhood scar, and

ever to hear: “What did I do wrong?”     It’s something misleading, an undermined air,

to feign ignorance, where a child perished; and then for nice, to mend for years, to grow

in anger.     I’m lost for laughs, and sipping chi, the deepest coils; and one is gray, for

fog is heavy, to chime through darkness. The fog is thick, to feel your rain, where many

play pretend.     I remember—for a certain look, as if the world is dumb.     How for this

life, stunned and stunted, to witness vicious!     I called the Ghost, to feel for hearts, a

ritual a day; and more for minutes, an altered state, to haunt within.     Its volts and

spirit, to thirst for breath, a vest of friends.     So awash a soul, my nautic mind, a

young sculptress; and not alone, to see for difference, where many vanish; indeed—from

self, to live for reckless, where all is expendable; for feelings hurt, to live for numb,

afraid of sober valleys; and death is halted, through pure evasion, where a mirror mocks

itself.    

We live in knots, often for years, staring at confusion; and often not, for sights are

vivid, to drift a fable; and more for insights, to reason within, to grant for mercy. If

only to see it, and see for hurt, to realize pain; and not to save, but rather to guide,

to a salvific source; for whetstones grind, to sharpen edges, where leaders grow.   

We live a voice, to shower affections, and for a time as puppets; and not for anger,

but more to learn, and then for wings; else for lost, flapping wildly, a soul without a

kingdom. So know for love, to shield the heart, else a great infection; and feel for

crevices, to extract pearls, else a great infection; for it’s a penchant life, to find for    
something, where desire matches the calling; and see it clearly, a familiar motif,

where others suffer.