I’ve
thought of woes, speeding through clarity, pausing at red lights, where senses
seep suddenly, racing through gravel, but weakened by your aura; to have a
swan, this deep affection, to see something different in women. Its reaped
reality, to see you grieving—that feeling of heaviness; as cultured artfully,
this mystic yawning, to perish by heart’s infinity—that rolling stone, tilted
as bent, feigning as one controlled; to laugh it off, instinctive that moment,
to utter, “Sobriety is far reaching”—as meant to sin, this casual secret,
spoken but unheard; this nerd of woes, peering at crows, a painted griffin at
your ceiling; to expose pain, while sipping wells, this rope too short to
rescue. We know for hell, to want for peace, that crooked thought concerning
liquor. I know a friend, as fully a liar, trekking this inner haven—while built
in webs, ever a new person, as effective as kryptonite—this murderous
attraction, spent for intoxication, to enter while sinning your life; that dear
contraction, where earth is numb, this flurry by vultures our arts. I must
appear, in mere a sentence, to confess such frightening waves; this vicious
woman, to give us birth, while deeply compassionate—that contradiction, as
sheer reality, while to fight against mimicries—those by souls, this prime
location, to know but what we witness—that feral night, to awaken pure, as to
offer a son breakfast. I laugh to write it, as cautious as kittens, to watch
that gentle mother: our woes are buried, to flourish through moments—a mere
gesture awakens our childhoods—where father appears, or mother cheers, while
hell invades our inwards—this rich advancement, to realize trauma, while
staring at a complete stranger. I’ve seen this place, as to ponder theories,
while in reality a man suffers—to play it safely, crying in silence, as to work
things out on our own. It angers our psychs, as trained in mind-wars, while
tenacity stipples infection—that long spell-crest, that mental credenza,
fleeing a maze of memoirs—to speak it plainly, this tortured art, this pedal by
fire our literary—as damaged through time, puffing a cigar, to ponder this
would be catastrophe—that feral woman, set to dominate, while hell pushes our
cinemas—to die with grace, as fully a storm, to arise filled with vengeance.
