It’s
terribly stern, this inner reality, to build an image. I charge life, the valve
of mystery, to glean through, Trethewey. There’re ancient laws, and ancient
symbols, to find each letter. Oh the power, streaming at stars, to infuse a
daughter; and we die the light, filled with fevers, and steady at stardom. I
never knew it, to meet it daily, to feel the panic; and words flew, unto a
storm, sullen at stations. I love you more, to lose for essence, the love of a
cultic; where pain grows, to trust in waves, to know the outcome; for we study
systems, sick and striving, that closer the maniacs. Oh to see it, barely
cultured, stressing insanity; where many flee, never to return, even unto self.
So more the mountains, to bless the Nietzsche’s, to praise the Ezra’s; indeed
the life, churning through turmoil, to keep it as secrets; where love heard, to
offer a hand, as structured as warriors. I love you more, to read your
feelings, to remember my youth; and tender the motion, to flare a heart, to
flux through ponds; into the very nature, that built the winds, where dust
became human. It couldn’t be, a father that lost, to produce aphorisms; and it
couldn’t be, the weak for the strong, to journey this cycle. I felt a wave, at
loss to claim it, to identify the source; but oh the dreams, to feel your soul,
to know for love. To our dearest
mother: the tides should settle, the stars shall glisten; it’s more the reign,
to see the times, to claim it in glory; but life is pain, plus for joys, to
outwit the witty; whereat are scars, to dread the days, where words fall stale;
and never could, this sore forgiveness, where so much was weighed. Indeed the
light, shadowed in a corner, running towards a wall.
