I
like the spurts, a bit watchful, cleaving to tools. There’s something there,
searching for outlets, a storehouse of investments. So electric; a sandy
pyramid; to climb a staircase. I felt the pith—of a starry beach, where tears
trickled; for such is delicate, a chiseled palm, a pierced existence; and oh she
feels, to grip a Zanex, to slam a shot. I’m a color naïve: to know so much; to
feel so much; where flatness creeps, to grab the liquor, to growl in spirit.
There’s a dragon, beneath the flesh, to etch out tensions; in which for dry, a
bit stagnant, to realize pressures; whereat is silence, to take a trek, a mile
towards havens. There’s legends, captured in scripture, veiled in honesty;
where it couldn’t be, but ever true, to scrape for mildew. I flit to scud, lost
for literature, to know but a little; where she dies daily, to know for
flatness, to carry for fortunes. Something pictures a neb, a small thorn, pushing
for grapes. I walk away, to turn for backwards, to watch the written; where-was
for anger, where nothing counts, for pain is law; to override logic, to trample
reason, to grab a bottle. The fabric burns, a bit discolored, as doleful as
goodbye. I grabbed a stein, to fill with wine, to slam the mug. It’s a vague
feeling, to know for need, to know it was her; ever to sit there, as bold as
lies, to undermine life. We do it well, as if dumb is law, forever netlike. I
pause to regroup, to know for a day, a sober mirror; for a quilt has perished,
a childhood comfort, to swaddle a wound; where stars are vocal, to usher a
future, where passion reigns supreme; whereat is death, a patient reminder,
that ours is different; for rain comforts, to feel familiar, to see for
reflection—where pain is ambivalent.
