Oh
to break free—and say it all, that closer to saying nothing; the world is so
bright, the color of living, to honor Rihanna; or more a teacher, to see for
lost, that closer to nothing; the art suffers, for authenticity, to see it and
weep; and more the pain, for feeling culture, the eyes of Beyoncè; to flit and
fly, a marvelous fever, where many are frantic; and yes the art, to ravish a
soul, that closer to culture; but rarely mentioned, the strife and static, the
saints and soldiers.
Oh
to break free—and say for little, that closer to saying something; the souls
are blemished, skating concrete, that closer to abstracts—and colors, and
political strife, to structure and perish; so more to chaos, the cuts and
groves, as captured as bright eyed phantoms; the walk of life, the pull of
passion, as privy as panic; to see it and pause, to plead it and perish, that
closer to saying something;
where
ghosts are free, to break from purgatory, the story of breathing—and god woke,
to see for pressure, a woman for art: the hope and scope and realms and deaths.
