He
was born a Pisces, the pride of parents, destined for traumas. His parents were
addicts, to feign as normal, until the demon overtook them; in which was
sadness, the cities of inner pain, a fig tree to wither. They found a false
self, one for comforts, the hearts of the seas; for tumultuous waves, that
distant oasis, wrapped in narcotics. Each was Bipolar, coupled with liquor, to
vanish in presence. Mother took the hem, while father sought the worlds: Is it better to die or live? There came
a secret, to grieve a mother, but he never met this man—this man of words, this
fanatic man, a fragment of history. We speak of such reality, a bit distant of
facts, to peer at it academically. We say certain things: It isn’t normal; or They were uneducated; but rain is universal, a
universe of addictions, where children watch—branded in mind, to learn of
truths, to mimic such escapes. The fruit of his soul, knew the name of glory,
welted by affliction; to meet such likeness, a repeated cycle, to lose, The fruit of his soul. We see it as
normal—this fettered feud, to accommodate injustice; with likeness unto sin,
where they vomit from nervousness, a coach to one’s mind. He knew upon entry,
but the violence of humanity, to feel as trapped. It wasn’t—for as it is, a gem
they can’t wash away. He ponders mother, to wonder of her nature, to remember
the marrow of the bone; for mother was pregnant, big-eyed and glistening,
tugging at this man. He couldn’t forget it—the plague of this life, the lot of
the sinning souls; to compare the rhythms, and ever running, to meet a woman
like mother. He dwells in prayer—the praise of glory, sorely afflicted; to
chase for sanity, the endless chase, to walk with affliction.
