Oh
the deepest mercy; to redeem what was; to harness such hatred. I try for
perfect, to turn a gaze, where injustice rules a family. I often wonder of how
one would hold weather under similar treatment: could they do it; would they
crumble: to scream at injustice, where the agitator laughs? I know for answers,
to know asylums, to bear the pressure; but what for teaching: a daughter left
crooked, where hell has a voice? I fret and fear a famous scar, in which, a
monster takes root: breathing for rising, where a young lady courts hell; but
we know for mercy, an inner wit, a grand intuition; for morals are taught, in
every school, where home is a contradiction. It goes as follows: “It’s
thoroughly right to ruin, when it’s me that’s ruining”; in which a seed is filled
with water, desperate to swim from self. I die a puzzle, to know the pieces, as
intimate as sex, where sex is love; else, for a star seated in a galaxy, as
reachable as perfection. I often wonder of how they sing, where the mirror is
bleeding death: to then tell a seed right from wrong. “It’s not as I do, but as
I say”: whereat a seed feasts on a channel of injustice. I need to laugh; but
it’s quit improper; in which laughter offsets the anguish; but she knows for
love, where the future speaks of justice—and how so? I’m then a villain, for
speaking of facts, grounded for injustice. It’s quite for hell to burn and take
and cheat and laugh! This isn’t for freedom! We live with reason, even an inner
guilt, yearning for justification; and where for grief: a mirror with a shadow,
to wonder of soundless, to awaken during rest. The mind is a vessel; ever built
to receive and process and respond. How for a mind bent on hell?
