It
becomes that, to finally speak it, to gallop towards justice; where the rain is
puddles, the truss of guile, stuck with injustice; but he had to see it, with
unclad eyes, to feel the trauma; ever entwined, plucking a bract, wishing upon
a vignette; where years trouble souls, to pull the knife, the ebb of this
wilting.
It
becomes that, where love once sang, her beauty and turmoil; whereat the spoor
of love, a rancorous odor, the meadows of trauma; to watch the helm, a wheel
for spinning, to crash upon an island; where hell grew limbs, as gorgeous as
forbidden, in which years proved detrimental; and now for hatred, for anything
godly, to spew out regrets.
It
becomes that, the venom of serpents, to wade through trenches, the wreaths of
madness; for one so young, to witness the deaths, to be asked for different;
but only us, and not for one’s own, as stoic as make-believe; the armor grows
thicker—and what for telic, as the years churn—in which to perish, or grow for
sterner, to ask for distance.
