We
watch for images, a reflection of self, an assortment of eyes; to shine come
trauma, worthy of a war, to advocate for human rights; such is passé, and ever
before us, to articulate an essay. I often wonder—of gut beliefs, to give a
living soul; to see it right side out, cringing the sights, a world made
callous; but not the roots, to yearn for peace, to engender a kind caress. We admire love—ever the reach, to wince
from love; for much the obligation, to live the professional, to grade our
friends. Some would contend, to finally see, a bias slant; but oh the root,
ever at tic-tac-toe, to garner affection; so more to stories, the lives of
humans, ever my brother—and ever my sister.
The soul is vigil, a bit too silent, to wrestle the mind; whereat are
hassles, an ideal castle, swimming through sludge and marsh; but sights are
vivid, the world of waterfalls, an inward oasis; oh the colors, morphing
through greens, the passion of a cave; where women reach, to paint the
politics, an emphasis on plight; and oh the psychic, to parallel lives, as torn
as opened mail. We saw for flames,
the fire of stars, to alter destiny—and oh to live it, the benefits of rain, a
need to hope; we scold at random, to contribute but a fraction, to etch
neglect; but not the roots, singing for sailing, as courageous as a kind
gesture; in fact for lights, to piecemeal a city, to finally feel for cores:
“It was ever me—the vessel of this pain—and terrified of living.” It’s more parameters, where often it’s us,
struggling for a solution; but once it was, the hands of power—and still it
lives—the hands of power. We feel it
deeply, an inner breach, beyond the intellect—and scratching presence, to itch
for reasons, floating through images.
