I’m
somewhere afar, staring at dreams, even possessed—that inner twirl, that
cultured scar, to wrestle a fever. If only to grab it, this miracle light, as
troubled as alive: this semi-torture, to spin as restless, to sit in chaos. I
couldn’t catch us, to watch the downfall, crawling in mire; ever for rebirth,
to carry a phantom, screaming at humanity. The walls are moving, a series of
mirrors, where something is laughing and mocking and wailing obscenities. I’m
heavy this world, accomplishing tasks, as segue to a familiar station. We feel
this heart, chartered in space, to live disease; but whom to tell—of inward
cries, this game of tic-tac-toe. I’m winning to lose, for losing to win, a peg
in a knee; as one to yearn, this thing called peace, to grasp it in moments.
It’s so elusive, the tease of a famous meal, where the flavor dwindles. I
wonder of a psych, to know for secrets, this round the clock madness; to pucker
up, to buff the mirror, to cringe while keeping concealed. Its inner mayhem,
for inner joys, to explore the mystics; its tender torture, this inner
discomfort, a moment found in mirrors; this infinite chase, to see one’s face,
buried in the netherworld; this taste of death, the long intervals, to hope
different for others. I pray to chant, to fall to rise, to feel that inner
churn; to live it blankly, to gain for insights, to wrestle the inner person.
Why for discomfort, this tender ache, filled with numbers of angst. I couldn’t
catch us, the long held positions, weary of interactions. I couldn’t speak,
afflicted with aphasia, pleading in spirit. The eyes swell, screaming at
emptiness, carving this inner mirror; to hike the Grand Canyon, even the
Himalayas, to scrape from iron this joy.
