I
wrote a letter, assigned to self, to remember this flame. It moves
in
ether, to center in brains, but a fragment of myself. We perish
—while
building, to piecemeal parchment. With cycles—come
fevers,
as detached as mentors—rolling through briers, while
chipping
glaciers—this nightlight phantom. We watch for upbeats,
for
secrets are kept, to amble the deep abyss; where some are
mirrors,
even a broken grid. I yearn for this thing, the yen of life,
as
cultured
as heathens—to exaggerate a feeling.
I
wrote a letter, addressed to fallen love, to remember this shame;
—for
something’s uncut, as raw as Peruvian, seeping into
stormy
Wisdom; where screens are split, for mothers perish,
while
fathers scrape for mercy. I relish such joy, even a
partnership,
as
keen as porcelain eyes.
I wrote a letter, entitled—“Daylight,” to
pierce the darkness;
in
which was fire, plus indie music, a brick built upon passion;
whereat are features,
embedded in hopes, to scribble a prayer.
