This
is life, Love; to wrestle forces, this touchless resistance; and watch for
outcomes, an overt affect, to trickle into the future. I never saw it, to alter destiny, to
offend divinity; for times are different, to fail to convey, that thing that
alters futures; and what to give, to remedy malice, that thing chipping at
hearts? The pain was crucial, a
churning triumph, to love the fruits; where this is you, as bold as meteors, as
warm as strength. I couldn’t find it,
this thing of forgiveness, to write you of triumphs. I barely understand, for the logic is
crooked, to ponder Ecclesiastes; and deaths are prevalent, to visit an inner
grave, to pull at Elisha’s bones. We
live for moments, to stress the present, to cause for evil; in which are lies,
the grays of wisdom, filtered through muddy thoughts. Suddenly we live, fettered to harvests,
grieving a roadmap. It was never this
wound, to catapult love, but rather the genealogy; plus the geometry, where
stars fell, and daughters prayed.
There are secrets, to pain a soul, to see for vicious; but it’s not the
play—of weary souls, to confront the darkness. We merely swim—the waterless
planes, to attempt for justice; and plus the anger, to misperceive beauty, as a
title for glory. We become this something, a spirit at the
forefront, as spacial as airwaves; to sand the balcony, to sit the madness,
tugging at moons; plus the disappointments, to kiss more rain, to pardon
folly. You may never know, the full
extent, of this journey called love; to give it—as received, the color of
culture; where mother was partial, for private reasons, to feel as an
outcast. I never would, these very
cries, to stipple a daughter’s soul; but more this life, to grow and
sing—through mudslides; else to perish, a vessel confused, to refuse the
information. I feel remiss—unless to
scream it—the love of a swan; for it seems for subtle, to capture an adult, the
scope of madness.
