It swells hearts,
these gritty tears, as afraid to cry; this inner portal, this Japanese
Garden—our father’s holiness. I died so young, and arose so brave, this cave
spitting thunder. Is it real: We can’t forgive, while deeply in the wrong? Oh
the hypocrisy, as claiming innocence—this distorted mind; to climb this grave,
as pushing soil, our fingers clawed in dirt. I take it back, every drop of
love, as one confused; that heartland soul, those droopy eyes…that failed
convergence; to see this hour, as a broken glass, as slammed against pride. We
picture insanity, for its different than us, a man with a thousand women; or
more a woman, with a thousand lies, pushing for harmony. It couldn’t be real;
but yet it’s real; this fever—her dreams. I crossed a lake, a woman so near, to
finally regain gravity; where hell was loosed, to extend a miracle, our honor
as a vehicle; to see us this love, as distant as God, as flavored as rainbows;
plus, a daughter, peering into facts, afraid she can lose love. Days are
buried, the gravel is grieving, and mother has come back; while monsters smile,
to close such pressure, this web upon closure. I knew a child, a room with
strangers, and this foul odor. They called it crack, this demon’s dungeon,
where souls morphed into centaurs; as such deep aversion, this Argus eyed man,
too young to vote. How to live, while mother dies—this fraction of the rules;
as born to nanny, as to bless her soul, a man fighting to live; where closets
speak, and dungeons scream, while souls lurk terrified alleys. I saw a man;
they called him father; and oh this disconnect; as fueled for games, to pursue
this craft, that closer to passing life; this hectic death, those proper
flowers, as a wilting sign. I met an
imp, and took it for granted, this woman with a plan. We died like faith, this
disgraced feeling, and stood stalwart at the tribunal; to flavor this fire, as
modeled the nights, and pleading as righteous; but no one saw, other than
death, as condemning this life.
