I’m lost in us, sipping fuchsia wines, and russet wings; as
granted this death, this slanted gin, that grin that couldn’t perish. Try this
life, a world of lies, and knitted agendas; to have given soul, for something
incomplete, as having to live with it: this outer terror, this nonchalance,
this child that grieves; for mother’s angry, as the world pauses, a filter
that’s indifferent. I came to life, but a child for souls, but a ghost for
woes; as courted that breath, this hurl of patience, as forced to secede; where
actions are myth, this inner sociopath, and outlining our lives. (A day later)
Our sun is moving, while daughters muse—such wearied by life; that calm chaos,
that soothing disorder, that meditative passion; while consumed the nights,
feuding with dreams, to feel that beat; where songs sing, as eyes grow heavy,
staring at a would be friend. I know for lowness, fighting with decisions, as
hoping for intervention; this marksman’s bow, or a mermaid’s kiss, as too a
professor’s critique; this land of psychs, too professional to see, that a
human is more than statistics. I remember wildness—such fluid chaos, before our
years grew rigid: I remember love, as this shallow thing, but churned for
through hearts: to have definitions, for all but life, as to embark upon that
journey; where scholars ask—of difference through nuance, where daybreaks are
such sameness; that casual air, that long flowing mane, those beats that drum
through essence; as churning with delicacy, our tiptoeing nature, devastated
partly by love. It shouldn’t be real, to possess such passion, as confined to
such standards; that hopeful control, that rigid ruler, those eyes that
condemn; as to live decisions, refined by few, as one absent from mirrors; to
see a reflection, while too soon forget, that person screaming for
coordination. I preach to a choir—this religious tense, while tenses are mused
upon; that probing light, to feel it come morning, as to snatch something to
abate sensations: this faraway land, this inner exhibition, our thoughts
disregarded; as to feel so gray, our reasons but fiction, our tears but
camouflage.
