I love your heartbeat, thriving through turmoil, in need of
therapy. We die so often, to respond as snails, so foreign to our plight; but
love is life, this need to heal, as opposed to suffering—this silent suffering,
jarred in hopes, as opposed to seeking solutions. I’m lost to this love, at
want to teach, this young adult. But why for turmoil, as to reckon defeat,
where our world is nudging; to push for magic, this mystic space, at once a
slow breath; to breathe with grace, as calming our souls, to exhaust a feeling;
for more our journey begins, wrestling through tar, forever this trek through
sludge. The marsh is silky—the canoe is riddled, while we paddle upstream. Our
journeys transcend, as wisdom is precedent, whereto, knowledge is monumental;
to float as feathers, as light as feathers—an unraveled scar—that jars our
minds, this love of mothers, fevered through oncoming traffic. I imagine a
soul, filled with gestures, but stressed through silence; to feel unheard, this
stifled voice, where the matriarch rules; but life is love, this gentle
patience, as worlds calash. It’s more this feeling, to know for presence, alive
the moment of impact; where fathers smile, this teary feng shui, our colors
harmonizing; as born to folly, with nary a glance, surfing through parental
sludge; but lights are beaming, the reefs are grieving, a leprechaun is
sprinkling magic. If truth be told, the pain is not us—where secrets were
revealed; so more to pain, this only channel, where one feels an affect;
moreover, to live it, to watch it daily, as if suffering is isolated; this torn
effect, to witness opposites, as opposed to seeing intent; this broken justice,
to encounter a sense of pride; but truth is life, the agony of vengeance, as to
witness a captured growling; where oh this heart, a beating star, freckled with
circumstance.
