We
sprouted from trauma, even broken homes, with models as addicts. The fever
churned, to morph a flame, to pull at brilliant souls; but ever to wrestle,
to
love for parents, to excuse the trauma. We had dreams,
to
watch them implode—into dynasties of sorrow. We grew
familiar
with tall tales, even apologies, to repeat a silent
cycle;
as vocal as mirrors, chiding affectation, to emote
composure.
How for a child, to become a young man, sought
after
for solutions! It happens in homes, to replace a father,
burdened
with pressures; where a young lady drinks
—while
a young man smokes, the two to meet through trauma; but what of faith, a solid
style, chiseled into a potential monster. It’s ever resilience, that deep in
prayer, for eyes to swell with flame. We push and pull and live to die—growing
through webs, to die for living. We sprouted from trauma, stressing strings, a
motif for a soul; we live the requiem, to serenade sorrow, that closer to
heartache. So more to arts, the torn expressions, a prelude to therapy; where
minds sing a chorus, to replay a cinema—to see for mother, an image as father.
The
opera is rain, seeping into soil, a soul as a garden; but what for trauma, to
hear it whistle, as intense as a symphony. We sprouted from pain, the raptures
of turmoil, a legacy of trauma; where mother died, to want for love, the reason
for kids; while father fled, without return, to live a stranger; we find for
tempos, to ward-off demons, to breathe each breath. It’s more the
hypersensitive, dwelling in five parts, a human as a quintet. We perish this
light, to see for trauma, to watch our reflection; where others chide, for
seeing the sights—of one aware of most angles. We die a fugue, to raise a rose,
to feel for spotted. It’s ever there, the favors of parents, to live it like
majesty.
