We
anger gently, to stare for injustice, to gasp and recoil. If only to consume—a
measure of light, caressing a petal! It’s more invention, a perfect stature, a
bit inhumane; and yet to crave—this very thing, for an imperfect world; if only
for greatness, to perish to keep it, to die the holidays. I barely say it, for such was said: We
fumbled in degrees. To sit a screen, and see for
nothing,
to ponder a love-one! It’s deep the glass, where some are empty, or filled with
Pepsi; and silence the road, an inner chiming, to venture dregs. I grip cigars, and binge a cycle, to come
to terms; and blessed was mother, the richest insights, as crazed a
rabies. We’re more for rabid,
something spacial, to guzzle a pill; in which is lightning, the thunder of
nuance, a car upon
a
sky; and oh to hover, as if a dark cloud, tugging at fears; whereat is liquor—and
oh the world, a must rebuke. We
flirted, to feel the passion, to know for flatness; and only rain, and only
joys, if measure be life. I thought
for love—and all the years—to gain a piece of self; to see us, striving for
normal, affected by gestures; and we know for love, even a courtroom, to play
for
jury;
where life is love—and steady for moods, to see a human; else for death, to
know for strife, to shatter a castle.
We live a bias—along the roads, consuming turmoil. We read it daily, and
feel for slanted, to know we yearn. I shift a sullen lot, structured as souls,
a shot away suffering; and there for love, an inner sanctum, and chastised
dearly. Its shovels and icy
marsh—haunted
by
whispers, a bit direct; and whom for thoughts, to utter the storm, to give a
hopeful glare?
This for thought: Who helps the
helper? It’s ever for known—and ever
for lived—a bit reciprocal. I ask to
pause, to shift a monad, to reckon a mother; for thoughts are hectic, to toke
and tug—and pour and drink—and pop for pills; and this is pain, to refuse a
hand, for—“No one
knows!” I watched and failed and failed and
watched, winking at a parachute. It’s
often—this life: ever for torn, even for lonely, staring at a banshee; whereat
are scars, and muddy tears, swimming in mire. I felt it—to flee it—and staring at a
mirror; and now for haunted, to rebuke the thought, to feel vibration. Oh the wildfire, and flippant airs, to
function suddenly; and
