I
push you with a finger, and you fall into a comma, that closer the diamond
pyramids. We shift and turn, alert to chaos, that further the future; and not a
word, to capture this illness, and wrapped in fevers. I love you born, while I
sit dizzy, influenced by the girth of wine; to live and die, a culture inborn,
the harness of dreams. The horse gallops, through an inner movie, affected by
sheer motives. How for sadness, to wrestle realities, as one a bit partial to
feelings; where this is life—the self as enemy, sorting through loud noises;
for it wouldn’t come, this in-between, gripping and grasping at sanity. I
seriously died, to live this life, as dark as midnight terrors. We’ve stolen
God, to define God, a God we created; and we perish God, to meet for God, the
horror of silence. I tried for sight, to lose for gravity, the wealth of our
discontent; where you couldn’t see, the slant of brains, as required to see; but
this is pain, that deep infusion, to wrestle with God. I can’t for feelings, to
find for perfect, a compelling sequence; and yes for hurt, the birth of folly,
searching for science; to see and give, the tears of reason, that much an
enemy; as God to man, to gain that position, to influence the cryptic core; for
power whelms, to infect for souls, the calling of a billion men. I love us
more, to stir for demons, as one to fracture the other side; in which is love,
to finally see, this something indwelling; but what for pain, to dearly
achieve, as one stagnated by pain; to flit dimensions, as one so gray, to
filter a travesty; where hurt is law, to feel the pavement, to then arise—from
slump and slum, this inward grave, as liquid as potent liquor.
