Our beds
are made—where hell is ruling, for feelings were hurt. One dies while one
smiles.
I’ve loved
a black moon, grieving as so his heart—the fevers of a good woman; to trek this
ground, where to ask of a good man, this vision torn by pain. We live it
jaded—accustomed to mishaps, as haunting this gothic love. I fury through
beads, enamored by love, that further his destiny; to perish with grace, to
give cake and stare, while she relishes in satisfaction.
I can’t
imagine life [this field of traumas] as to execute madness; the worries of
hell, as chalked in velvet [that closer to survival]; where love is moments, to
seek it elsewhere [fueled by injustice]; for souls panic, through passionate
love, a child the merits of a voice; to see for laughs, this demented soul, as
casual as scrambled eggs; for dementia lives, where anguish soars, a flock of
men damaged.
We must
forget, the hellish pains, in order to love; else for jaded, the panic of crises,
feeding upon gravel; the constant gnawing, that fatal aversion, that second
where truths flooded forth [after years of death] [after tours of Guyana]. I
imagine abuse, a tyrant as a friend, to receive hate and love much more;
to
fracture bones, grinding against nature, as opposed to retreating; as to force
the moment, where monsters breed—a woman with a secret; to know he wouldn’t, so
why disclose, staring at the legacies of hell; where death is lavish, while one
smiles, as to disregard the hatred. I can’t imagine love [forever with stealth]
as this trial is not by blood.
