There’s
for voiceprints upon soulprints upon fingerprints. I
walk
the prints, to hear godprints, to sculpture footprints.
The
nights are musings, to welcome Sarton, to gaze at rockprints;
where
David cried, to know the Bulwark, ever for favor. I
die
it softly, for gravely turned, to churn in your presence.
I
barely spoke, to stammer words, where verbs were sullen;
for
demons laughed, to use a trope, to freely this maze. I
loved
it less, to love you more, a shattered aircraft; but
more
to flight, the fight of flares, a creek of mirrors; where
momma
fell, the first of hits, chasing a phantom.
There
comes
for mad, and then for healing, to quote, Heat
of the Night;
and
there’s for wordbones, semi-fractured, as holy as annunciation;
to
trigger a gutsoul, or better a gutbone, spinning through rings
of
bark. Please pardon the words, to
trigger souls, to compliment
poets;
but pain is air, ever to hover, to feel you and fly;
whereat
are leaves, the veins of this trial, to surgeon a scar; for
eyes
are watching, and what to see, a phantom in a psyche. We
feel
for rain, to shoot a shot, to take it to heartcore; and
daughters
grunt, to sprinkle for dust, to mourn the results.
It’s
quite for torn: to want and crave, and crave and want,
following
footprints; but this is life, unless for change, to
stand
in the margins; where freedom’s sore, and lonely kneels,
to
stumble upon gold; and then return, a bit refreshed, to
hamper
the flippant. I drift a scar, with
cultic eyes, as
innocent
as unborn; where many wonder, to know the facts,
of
where it was; and this is life, a wounded package, to favor
love;
whereat, is there too, to conjure love; and hitherto, a
sullen
itch, to enter a kingdom; where pain is ramped, and
rants
are silent, and rareness is gem.
