We
speak freedom gently; to salvage sanity; to sterilize wounds; and heaven
deigned, for scar-born us, to chisel the flame. It burns internally, a fever
through caves, the waves of nearly gone; but Christmas came, and private
eggnog, to awaken heavily. I
searched a picture, and tucked it afar, to sip through the heaviness. Memories
came, to tussle through convictions, to settle a hopeless mess. I wait the given, to lose and receive, to
watch for ink bleeding; for this is soul, the ink of the Gentiles, as thorough
as mind-caves. I wait the wraith, to
exit a mirror, and tug an earlobe; and hitherto, the days are cultured, a vat
mining spirit; where something found, speaks for webs, to charge an engine; and
there is life, a feature insane, as alive as breath-beats.
We’re
scar-born, swimming through malaise, a bit unaffectionate; and oh it came, to
see ourselves, yearning for affection…but did we see it, a mirror we loved,
refusing us access? Did it shift a soul, where demons arose, a metaphor for
thoughts? I ask to know, a tad bit shy about it, to ponder the a.m. Something’s askew: to want and never give;
to suffer and never die; to hurt and not want it back! Let us not drift; seeing for peering, and
peering for seeing; where grass is greener—a fresh pair of lenses—and tree-sap
is wafting gently.
