I’ve
lost feelings—this grave insight, to finally lose you; wherewith, are scars, as
fleeing from dungeons, to inscribe a name. It wasn’t for us—this phantom of
dreams, to faintly apologize; where pain is essence, this kiss of breath, an
infusion giving life. I see you dying—this woman to live—a picket fence and
kids; where life is good—this perfect vision, as gratifying as Skittles; this
candy affair, this infinite glare, as eyes protrude; and death be life, to feel
through passion, this errant soul; and life be art, a humble inflection—this
rendered injustice; but where was love, when love was broken, a one person
affair. I cried your flame, this heart invention, as crooked as perfect; to
have for death, a reason to laugh, as gothic as bloody sheets. It wasn’t for
us—that inner din—filled with rocking chairs; and it wasn’t for us, this cross
of cultures, as filled with judgments; and it wasn’t us, as reading poesy, where
glory was fajitas. I’m near to fumble, to long a goodbye, as appraised by gods;
where life is action, this furious dream, to enter one last time; but this is
dreams, a fraction of a person, as dying in regrets; to know for psychs, to
dance for something good, as disappointed as Moses. It couldn’t be love, to
perish so quickly, a woman courting neighbors; and it couldn’t be love, to
vanish in hours, as to love a best friend. I blame a Buddhist, for digging so
deeply, and failing to guide; but this is life, a soldier challenged, as
condemned for resilience; but thoughts be good, to ingest a monster, and filter
a swan; wherewith are tears, to know for dangers—this inner fixation; to live
it grayly, a fountain of colors, an inner psychologist. Our days our grim, but
fraught with joys, as to balance a Bible; where love is perfect, at least for
living, until too much becomes a burden. I must inquire—of fickle souls, to
dance such a premise; where art is pain, and pain is life, and life is love.
