Roots Speckled in Rain

Mother didn’t do it, so I don’t.     I knew you the terror, to fawn towards beauty, a soldier to face it; and love misheld, to picture perfect, an ant in a museum; to mourn the fracture, alive come daybreak, to enter the darkness. Oh to perish, this triple life, stranded to the quicksand; and come true this night, the oak and pine, the stories embedded through souls; to pierce the day-quakes, an ocean of dreams, captured in the Brownings; and heard the screams, to emanate tears, stationed in a beating drum; that further the arts, a human clarinet, the flutes of a person; for mountains shatter, to become a seed, as tall as glaciers.

We feel regrets, to become for human, or better a skycraft; to flame the gray, to feel for static—the pangs of, We can’t; and whom to court, over a CD skipping, to proclaim love; and something unyielding, despite the gravid rain, that flood to paralyze the nightmares. Oh the visions, to permeate the dreams, to appear as concrete; for one that’s altered, to wrestle realities, as humble a Kung Fu; where life is battles, to avoid the spikes, chanting through gongs. We know for years, to feel like crap, holding to a position; but what of life, to heal like surgeons—the midnight pains; and heard my life, to flash through mirrors, that particular grain.