It’s
deep the bass, chasing visions, and ten beats in. I spoke to feel it, a young
Theologian,
adrift a day-heart; and love for tension, to drop a soul, and court
for
sutures. We knew it—this life, akin to passion, laughing like sanity. Oh
for
goodness, to graze a prayer, living on repeats; if not to change, an eye for
churning,
to find for souls. It’s a five hour drive, deep for caves, chanting
like
rivers. It’s a daughter’s soul; and grandma knew, to teach a daughter. Oh
for
grays, to live it torn, to carry eagles. It was ever muddy, to rinse a mandala,
lost
for rituals; and manic was, a dying child, to raise a nation. I speak it
softly,
for souls to see, the mirror’s reflection. Its diamond grains; and pencil
flames;
to shift to ink. We search for it, a manic self, to float with airplanes;
but
secrets told, to strengthen lives, to give for good. I love, and never saw, a
newborn
love; for this is life, a churning cycle, where hearts drop—and rise
anew. I feel her here, typing and pushing, to
turn commissions. We laugh;
and
only a moment, where one smiles. They say it’s crazy, to feel a mirror,
fraught
with fingerprints. It’s a Beautiful Mind,
selecting letters, where he
grins.
Oh for truths, and grassy fields, and miracle children; where daughters
drift,
to absorb life, a churning brain; and never debate it, if one has said it,
absorbed
by cultures. Its five spaces, for
five wounds, for seven senses; and
maybe
eight. I die her heart, to raise for
crops, turning through chi; and
mother
smiles, despite the angst, to see us grow. It was homespun, for home-
chains, to filter
debris; in which a soul, stabbed a Porsche, and sitting still.
