I
saw a child on a scooter, and scooted through childhood, to scope for sunbeams.
Tides poured forth; sculpted into rivers, and dying gracefully. It’s ever us,
upon sleepy eyes, catering to a parent. We see for paradox, even contradiction,
to muffle our grunts; but this is ‘normal,’ a slot for mother, a valve for
father; where art is expression, generated by pain, to create for beauty. So
why the fuss; spent and ruined, a flower in a sewer; because the grass is
shaded, to want for normalcy, to escape the heaviness; where parents falter,
stoned and blinded, screaming for dictums.
Is this for lots? It’s not for
all; where many sculpted love, shadowed pressures, giving for the purpose of
shelter; thus for sunshine, even moon rays, speckled through nature. Its
cabinet comforts, fitted romances, plus the rites of love; where a belle is
queen, a house is given, where a bond is lethal; but often it isn’t; for death
is symbolic; a family distant from hearts, a subtle camouflage, where black and
white is shaded grayly. We picture
perfectly, but nearly dead, to ask for sightless; where a young adult—mimics
behavior—a mile off course. We want
for scooters, even tricycles, ever our joys. We want for Lagos, plus for race
tracks, even a gripping hug. How many abroad, to see for death, even a new
temperament; where anger is law, colored in contradiction, for shaded in lies;
where many dance gracefully, to show the contradiction, a friend next door; in
which are kisses, picnics, even family discussion night. I see a process, where
hell induces genius—to compliment the method; but we die in parts, playing
pretend, or whelmed fully by the madness. We’re soon to ask: “Are we promoting
sickness, for the purpose of avoiding reality?”
