We
die to live it, this immortal life, carving at segues; to finally perish, the
warmth of joy, steady for chasing. I saw us living, and eating gourmet meals, a
bit unsteady; for love fevers, and pash is passion, where the two sustain a
cycle. If only to feel it, to live this matter, weaved in mathematics; to die
the comforts, for matter is gray, and fraught with ethical standards. We must
for living, to enter this world, as charged as nine volts; if but a fraction,
dazed and bruised, afraid of nothing; for this is art, the life as bone, the
thoughts as veins; to venture the valleys, hand to soul, grieving the
in-betweens. It mustn’t die, this inner song, pleading this unreal reality: the
days of angst, the charms as venom, the slights as passions; to see for
dungeons, the wealth of joys, to chase one emphatic. I write to reach us—this
inward scar, at wants to explain justice. It couldn’t be favor, to concern the
many, where hell is an arm reach away; and it couldn’t be for others, where the
self suffers, longing through the darkness; so what is it—to strangle
injustice, and morph in favor for one and all? I barely see it, after years of
chasing, to finally surrender to inner laws; and I barely feel it, aside for
thriving, to finally surrender to natural wisdom; to flit through galaxies, as
one dearly scorned, to lose the flesh of his flesh; and what for pain, and ever
to grow, longing for agitation; oh the secrets, of one so calm, calculating
that inner dimension; for this is life—to see and read—the hairs of our
success; else to perish, as one deeply gray, alone as one deeply wrong. We
can’t but die, in a world so vast, at struggle for formulas; to mold a nation,
if the likes of us, the few cursed by the many.
