I’m
on empty, to ponder a psych, to know for evenness; not for art, but rather
humanity—our
lives. I dig for deeper, to reckon professors, a woman in her
grief;
and still for love, a gentle flower, to face the breeze. Oh for low,
spinning
philosophies, to mourn nihilism; in which is grace, to face it bent,
and
slow for grains. I love a swan, to roam through life, but sheltered dearly.
Its
“drunken sins,” and elephant aches, to reminisce graves. The earth is dark,
to
channel mystics, to fret through silence. I remember love, the sweetest
princess,
with eyes wide open; and what for rules, if thus doesn’t know, a
world
of fuses. I want more to feel, fleeing from flatness, where psychs are
shallow.
So more for liquor, the felt of words, to paint in visions.
Its
toothache love, and crawling graves, to wake with death. I ran a mile, and
looked
for tracks, bleeding grayly. Shall God forgive, a wealth of attics, even
private
rooms. I fall a past, and held for guilty, for speaking truths; for such is
loathed,
for mirrors clash, to forget it come sunrise. I barely ate, and filled with
cherries,
and knees to concrete; for there’s a woman, to hate for soul, the extent
of
truths. We filter like pagans, and must be true, for it vibrated. I cry this
vest,
spent
for reason, to cry home for love. We walk the death, filled with grays,
to
know they shouldn’t love me; and this is fear, to die alone, where lies grew a
tree;
and more this death, bent on hell, lying for reasons; and thus for glory, to
paint a legacy, as
real as billion dollar ills.
