I
imagine graces—spent on liquor, begging forgiveness. I’m ever there, to grovel
a bit, to surface in flames. I gave
it to you—to die our plight—to know rejection. The world is fragments, bouncing
through lyrics, to know for never; where
pain is grand, a sore event, to channel divinity; and cry your name, broken and
fallin’, to rise like prophets. I love you living—to turn through flight, a bit
amazed; and god called, to fury a heart, for one to utter names. It burns a whirlwind, spinning through cyclones,
even a boomerang. I know it’s them, a
series of stars, grounded in heartache; where power is volume, and volume is
power, to receive it as humble. I see
it clearly—the knights of anguish, to pull despite nonchalance. It tears a
soul, to blink through visions, where eyes roll. I cry a tear-mare, as if a
nightmare, to tiptoe the cymbals; where the echo cries, a volt of terror, to
ponder years past; in which is midnight, but fair the maiden, to whittle
consciousness. I’m torn through light,
to see a vixen, alive this heartache; where symbols lie, to feel the venture,
to wrestle intentions. I know for
words, to trigger responses, a teacher as a queen; but more illusion, for never to hear it, a reason for such
thoughts; and thus, the anguish, to wonder for why, as bent as burning
iron. I hear it more, the fallin’
tables, to spin a senseless web; where ever to see, if sight be sought, a child
trying harder. I tell for truth—the
nights of action, felt and art for life; in which the future, ever to writhe,
as fluid as illusion; so more to retreat, to feel and wonder—this secret
world. I’m in with smiles, a fever of
commotion, to scream, “Yahweh.” It’s
more the essence, to love a fever, a bit for distant.
