Why
oh so distant—and oh so close—my dying savior? I asked for closure,
spent
in foggy weather, as grim as daylight. I whiff a cyclone, spinning in
prisms,
to shift for faith. I want alone, to feature a trespass, to long for the
faceless.
It’s a daughter’s ache, a smidgen spellbound, to harness destruction.
The
tears are castles, built on rocky grounds, to surf through self. I cried a
legacy,
and still for hells, to question the process. Am I for deaf, to hear for
sounds,
a well of underground visions; in which for grains, a sightless root,
cupped
in a coffin? I ask—fully in error, the damned of souls, for doubt is
constant
questions; but still—the grief, to ward off demons, pushed to the
very
edge. I waver, Lord, an infant distorted, screaming for a breast; where
the
watch—is vengeance, to solace self. What for passion, to chip for
clear,
a vulture in a harnessed wagon? I
fall a self, to lose a self, to morph
into
a self. The clouds are tombs, where God is silence, the method of a
pentagram.
So why for rage, when blank is thought, to play pretend? We
love
for faceless, to fill for rills, a cavity streaming flames. I can’t but
feud,
an endless reign, where pain is constant; for life is short, a need for
joys,
to carry a fortress. It’s more to God, to alter graves, where bones are
speaking tongues. So
please forgive, an unruly soul, asking for evens.
