I
can only imagine the rift of souls as saturated as stems; and I see visions the
touch of vines to stir this mind. How to cherish the absence—this sky-born hurt
the value of Scriptures? We live as phantoms, to treasure the measures, flooded
with volts; and this for love, this internal growth the broth of Spirit. Was it us—this flaming fire and
subconscious echoes; to rise in death, to snatch the sting, a song to a cloud?
I wrestle demons, that attack the mind, as held as unfit—for a world that’s
perfect, to hear profanity, the plight of pretend. I could never that light, to
scream rebukes, puking from fevers. Was it life—to churn the souls, to pound
the mirrors; where trouble wails, to plague the conscience, a woman upon
pavement? I ask the sightless, to jog the mind, for death is nearby; whereat is
pressure, to grip the scalp and tug clumps of hair; to finally breathe, the act
of acting out, a second of breaking free. I imagine this rift, the division of
metal, and two parts walking; to perish the sun, to ask for wholeness, a bit
impatient. We want it now—the earth as love, the pain as minute; to see for
pleasure, the joys of life, a father at the helm; oh the challenge, to tussle
through dreams, to want abundance; where this conflicts—with jewels and
diamonds, a rebel to stand alone. I see a freckle, and an oval face, shooting
at demons. I perished that moment, to rise that instance, a soldier for
rituals; to combat life, that brief event, to harvest emotions; and love flies,
to scrape the gravel, as dusty as caves; to finally float, as fever and vine,
the tides of sorrow. It couldn’t be—to love as strangers, and cut so deeply;
where fault is his, a mistreated man, and she holds this position.
