To
never have died—is to never have lived—this cross upon crooked souls; as born a
filthy rag, courting, Felicia—and dining with Danish gods; the volume is such
pressure, to avert our attention, desperate for one last tryst; to meet in
closets, as born to perish—this African goddess; as chiseled in engrams, alive
in mental banks, astounded by psychology. It’s the market of pains, the shame
of truths, as love is cherished for special. It couldn’t be real, to tug a
star, as to attain to life—that closer mother’s illusions; as rotten softly,
this existential charm, this postmodern havoc; as gray as death, this plate at
a table, where the meal is missing. To never have died—is to never have lived—this
symbol upon airborne thoughts: the angst of ballet, the tears of swans, as the
first Precious in seasons; to love for no man, that further the brooks, to
cross his riven mind; as stationed nowhere, enlove—without roots, shooting
through a series of shames; where death is life, this exhilaration, chasing
after fireflies; as to know for patience, this impatient pace, as a need for
feeling desired; as it couldn’t be real—to lose so much, that closer to
midnight liquor; so die his life, to live her death, as two fallin’ where
Douglass stood; to crave us softly, this fatal addiction, as pure
contradiction. Oh day’s goddess, as cultured through trials, strutting through
tribulations; to ungraph a face, as to unsex the pain—if only before ground
zero; where smiles were life, as to kiss that morning, prior to a series of
travesties; where it couldn’t be real, this briefcase as luggage, as to send
back for lives; where seasons are unripe, as souls are unwrapped, this legend
as unraveled; to mourn the goddess, as to wrestle with Greek gods, to see it in
the eyes of Zeus; where it looks like us, to breathe like us, as to affect like
us—as so is reality; this born again light, this friction of moments, as
birthed through osmosis; to ponder our names, where ink-rivers flood the
Mississippi, and earth-charms alarm the revelation.
