We
live and laugh and lust and play; and more this life, this grandeur, this
village of pistols; and more his eyes—to speak his heart—a partial psychopath;
but aren’t we all, cased in music, and taking notes. I remember for secrets, and “Bet not
tells!” and a hell of visions; for there were ghosts, to exit his soul, and
phantom eyes. I cry this fever, to
tap for in, to lie for happiness; and act
as if; and daughter moved, and father jolted, a series of chides…and what
was it, to finally shift, to seal analysis…for something feels, beyond emoted,
to fall his lot…and where for light, a walking wraith, to meet for kinds; and
power shared, and power gained, to give more power. I see a woman, to protect what’s hers, and
damn good at it; but there are cries, to whelm a soul, to strike a flame; and
god came, to climb a tree, to get perspective; in which were hearts, and triple
beats, to infuse for wrong. This is
love; and ever to want; and ever to have; where purple is scars, and thoughts
that follow, to usher a locomotive; but what for her eyes—for something lives,
even hypnosis. I must envision, and
stream a ghost, even a kindred soul; but what for grandeur—to live it and
perish, to speak to self? I
ask—longing and living and quite for distant. I know the motive, to die a spaceship, to
watch for Jones’ Town…and this is life, to buy for sale…to guard a daughter;
and what for this, to wrestle and losing, to believe for winning? This is us: somewhat anti; and this is us:
somewhat cutthroat; for life is struggle, to meet for wise, to want to unravel;
and love is blind, a ride of grandeur, to paint a perfect smile; and must to
know, the way we love, fully a portrait; to see for arms, and give for arms, to
see right through it; in which is love, to take a hand, to see it worldwide…I
love us!
