We
take loses, embedded in deaths, as to lose a child; some by fate, others by
errors, some by life. I see trauma, as un-manifested, creeping into realities;
to gaze afar, if but midsentence, to suggest, “I’m staring at father”; this
distant stranger, this aloof being, this casual patience; to die at love,
forbidden to love, while deadly to love. I know a friend, this new found death,
to cup a son’s breath; this urn of lights, this ah of souls, where ghosts
invade homes. We held a petal, clawing at prose, this thetic enterprise—to cry
by life, this dripping of life, to feel it seeping away. I’ll shift a turn, to
honor your status, as one despising such cadence; this faint disclosure, to
soon retreat, for our reach as gripping fires; this sworn hatred, at love to
perish, as long to live a dying mirror; this inner crane, this locomotive, a
friend dying with motives; this season so loved, this force so cherished, as
stricken to rain; this drip by beads, this blood by sulfur, this damaging
growth. We see a course, through radiant eyes, to witness such seep away: this
laughter by days, this sorrow by nights, to wish by hell those moments; if not
by heaven, this mystery of arts, where fair souls die so often; to cringe at
life, while to value life, where fruits reign as measures. It couldn’t be life,
this petit event, as to cherish this life; to ask a prayer, for a nameless man,
where hell sits that doorstep; for gardens were broken, fences were torn, as
wolves stampeded our tulips; to find with deaths, this seed of life, to plead
for mercy; this grumbling anguish, this rooted abasement, this falling by turns
that knee; to grovel with joys, that deep devotion, where mothers kneel to
pray. It had to be life, to dig so deeply, this man of courage; our friend in
arms, sectioned at souls, gripping for pleading this light.
