It’s more
a profile—our swan as controversial, this symbol in history; to speak of
elegance, even darkness, as colored by impressions; this fearful art, congested
in hearts, this beating wand; as casual madness, our mother’s koan, scribbled
upon skylights. We faint in solace, that moment lonely, seeking our inner
selves; to write as living, this hankering prose, our portraits melting through
images. I know this face, as painted spikes, where a parent suffers; to see
that mission, embedded in lines, that daily resurrection; as surreal caution,
to anger a mother, where she moves as reptiles. I’ve cried our nights,
resilient in depth, as refusing to perish—this ghost, as phantom worries,
haunted beyond recognition; as inherited wings, floating through measures,
learning to maneuver. I see a star, this need for fortune—that further advanced
in life; to lose this portion, for hatred rules, where one was devastated. We
often say: Tell it on the Mountains—that
engrossed in wickedness; to yearn for beauty, this dearth within, where muddy
ponds run amuck. I drift to return, as tired of preaching, as wrestling with
this new approach; to perfect madness, this inner cake, stirred in chaos; but
latent eyes, this unsuspecting—as dying with growth; to passion through dreams,
as inner confidence, confronted by a loving glance; as lavish regrets, afraid
to see us grow, for mirrors have become adversaries; so how for love, as to
clamp success, as gifting a ceiling; this inner imp, as selfish as blind,
sitting in fabulous wonder. We mixed genetics, to find this face, our kef as a
treasured cycle; as now to complain, where nothing was good, for our present is
better; this edgy lie, this outer elegy, this capricious energy; as whipped
through nonsense, to give so little, with expectation of heaven’s domain; where
a daughter wrestles, learning about ethics, distinctive of morals, formulating
claims; while parents grope, for innocence has perished, where old tales appear
as offensive. I’ve sighed this name, trekking upon mars, afraid that love is
ruined: a home of addicts; a wave of selfish behavior; this model that anything
goes—“As long as I do it.”
