Oh as
conscious, and oh as desperate, a pain to joyous eyes; our sapphire friends,
our burgundy nightmare, our turquoise blues; as confused the mountains, crying
through brooks, this situation for conscience; our darkest moment, as brilliant
diamonds, and jasper dreams; to awaken bloody, gripping his fey, a daughter with
a hatchet; as cried this light, this jasmine tear—the years as prisons. I’d
love to fathom, that airborne life, captured where he died, fumbling through cotton-fields; where daughters wail, and
sons box, and fathers feel hell: that terrified look, that churchyard fire,
those days screaming at faith. The dungeon fell, clutching his spine, where
death was spinning—as sheer defeat, and still to crawl, as robbing for
particles: this glorious life, an inner world of fears, a pumpkin carved as
ghosts; but show us love, as prone to profanity, and billion dollar facades;
for we couldn’t love it, this centric world, as graced with pennies; to find
his future, and to forget the weeds—apologetic for so much; but oh the conscious,
that needed trespass, while a griffin mingles with clouds. They took it early,
this innocent child, to mold a sage; and for short, as to lose it all, as proud
to perish: this sick distortion, this survival thrust, as painted through muddy
tears: the cheers of life, that moment she came, that second he fell; to court
a vixen, with little to love, and everything to whittle; so carve his brain,
with no need to care, and everything to gain. The jail was self, to collapse
his brain, as conscious we were: this fiery lose, this tender cross, a gardenia
dipped in gold; to say that he lived, her final forgiveness—that tear that just
fell; and oh the walls, crashing where he flew, this inner detriment; as
floating in pools—a daughter with a hatchet, a mother with a camera.
