He
wouldn’t leave him, tripping off mania, filled with mafias. They clashed, even
a
nightmare, spent off bleeding. I felt for death, to reel for life, abandoned—my
nerves.
We tore for dungeons, where others turned ghost, to perish for grit. I
love
it, to read for letters, a gift through hells. We live a vacuum, even a small
world,
fraught with pearls and gems. Its hectic a tear, to fall plain view, at
unawares.
We stab a pedal, to drift for gutter lanes, to swerve through traffic; and
more
for silence, to purchase an issue, to love despite the death. I fault them not,
running
from mirrors, where toes tip rivers. It’s lost in logic, to fade the gravel,
poured
through the cracks. I gave it life, to chart a map, to stream for addicts;
where
all were perfect, a pure illusion, to churn in rituals. We died the chase, to
rise
the face, a mile through hells; in which to die, cooking pork chops, two
glasses
shy.
Indeed a pressure, to measure a death, to growth through heavens; where
hearts
for flame, the youngest casualty, debating a red light. I filter through grave-
yards,
to rebirth life, to carry a legend; but more to love, to scrape a soul, a
hallowed
cave; where love is silent, unless for actions, to scar the selfish; for this
is
life, a conscience soul, a bit for reckless. What for madness, to play a friend, to
feel
for anger! Where was it, through
years of strife, searching for an inland?
Was it not a game, to
fathom for game, to give back game?
