It
was death for life, as innocent as doves, to become frost bit. I looked to see,
a tower of hells, forcing a reply; and god fell, beaten bloody, to raise a
mountain. I cringe to hear it, a note for sour, my life in raptures; and yes
the burn, afraid to speak it, to cross a zealot; and so many rules, to follow
safely, to scream for mercy. I’m there, too tipsy to blink, to meditate this
woman. We need for love, to dull out illusions, where tears wash souls. I waft to
float, to drift through rites, as beige as turmoil; in which is life, and even
for deaths, a mother pushing—and shoving—to build a man. I love her more, as
tears fall, to write and disappear. Was it us, dead for living, a family of
absentees? I ask—to know for answers, for pain was alive and molding—to sculpt
a miracle, to crave a vision, to pull a psyche. I love it torn, to see it morph,
and touch the universe; where art is sorrow, to die the graces, the face of
confidence; and more for hate, to judge by mirror—the extent of a stranger’s
life. I’m cold for it, and warm for it, to see receptive; and grandma died,
screaming at walls, to know for a force; but not a soul took to pause, to feel
the rain, dripping through psyches. They wrote it blankly, as detached as cops,
to mock a legend. I love her more, to hear my heart, sparked and crying. The
tour is over, and never this lot, to embrace a new tour. It’s soul to soul, and
mind to mind, to give us truth; in which is joy, sitting and coughing, as sick
as opinions. Forgive the essence, to want for concrete, to pass off a mere
hunch; and oh the love—bent in cycles, to push for forward; where one breaks,
to die the grains, and hates your life. I pray the light, to mend the night, at
war with self—spinning and sipping—to give for more than woes. Its true your
charm, to snag a heart, to live a heart-tare; and a goddess knew, as crafty as
death, to snatch an eye’s vision; where pain grew, while love blossomed, to live
this space; but more to mother, my heart and joy, my number one teacher.
