We
live it torn, and ever for amends, to receive parts of mercy; but
damned
be clear, as not to give, a part of mercy.
I
see it in rills, the coldest chills, to hear for disrespect; and mother
called,
the grandest scar, aloof and yelling. It’s a shorn disposition;
to
hate and love—a caress with splinters.
Here’s
a crayon; and here’s a memory; a childhood Disney; where
hell
broke free, a father’s inferno—fraught with drugs.
I
died to see it—and colored with pencils—a mosaic platform; in
which
for deaths, and small enclosures, to scrape a brain; for
mother
cried, where heaven paused, and never the same; for power
is
rich, a mixture of medias, either for left or right.
I
feel a daughter, as clear as gardens, to sketch a picture. I see
a
web, as muddy as ponds, to thwart a soul; where visions form,
and
storms rustle—the leaves of a conscience.
