We have this life, or it has us, cuffed at a mirror. We have
this love, or it has us, stressed at this juncture.
I’m midnight blue, which cast of eyes, searching for
something different.
Don’t give us death, this runaway light, perfected in the bellies;
as grunting his mind, drifting upon horseback, hanging by a horse’s ribs; to
die this love, at fifty miles per hour, and touch the midair. We could live, as
a solid unit, harnessed by this love. Oh the ideals, to crave this vixen,
propelled to cherish; while hell is gravel, this inner monster, pushing for
vengeance. I bold the night, this captive of souls, plaguing the purgatorial;
where love was heaven, this faithful two weeks, to claim it proudly; but oh the
pinch, to ignore the silence, as so much fun—up and ‘til—that fatal cry, this
childless song, pursuing the same grief. I’m bleeding pain, this cosmic chill,
dangling from Neptune; but oh the valleys, that shadow of death, this born
exhilaration; to carve a throat, as to bend the music, as hot as mystic.
What’s left—this kinship depression, excited by art; as
holding to secrets, this flavored foundation, hoping for longevity. I’m river
gray, and poultry brown, as fixated on fuchsia eyes; this flagrant craving,
this dying wish, as painted on purple islands; as broken and fixed, an order
for services, that further insync with justice; to make it easy, this outward
interest, as a runaway slave—featured in Douglass, as angered through Malcolm,
as passive as King; the tides are churning, this trope for souls, as torn for
love; this inner kettle, this flaunting whistle, this bodily eczema. I couldn’t
but see it, as laughed upon, to know it for every home; the ghastly tales,
filled with ghostly fibers, as to return vengeance; this crooked love, this fevered
dove—the angst of such anxiety.
