Its
abstract lives, featured in concrete, to muse the architecture.
Its
acrylic tears and animation to believe in closure; for life is
airbrushed,
a gallery of hurt, an assemblage of mercenaries;
where
to perish, a thumping heartbeat, to feel her and stumble.
I
knew for mercy, to receive it not, to greet an auxiliary; whereat
was
death-work, a platform of tracks—a woman with child.
The
faces moved, stippled in portraits, blending my heart-mare;
and
love heard, for silent screams, to awaken such artwork.
Bridges
are rising, speaking calligraphy, a canvas for a cartoon;
for
neither sees, the fresco clay, thumbing ceramics; and never for
us—and
ever for us, to run away gently; in which are scars, and
tattooed
weapons, to mourn through flesh. We
felt to love, or
something
thereto, casting stones; and oh examples—and burning
hearts,
featured in concrete; where wine is good—to measure
flame,
a temple in a psyche; and this is love, to give for rope,
to
piecemeal graffiti. It’s ever there,
a steaming coal, to press
upon
lips; and this for colors, to grab for chalk, and outline self; for
wilted
tulips, sit a grave, a collage of life; where blotches speak, a
broken
compass, to contrast our lives; in which is struggle, and
sore
for difference, to know she ran the gambit.
