I
feel a Ghost, or some type of chi, or this hectic combination. I feel hearts, atop
experience, this yogic enhancement; to die in parts, while to live this voice,
as silent as a daughter’s birth. I hear a swan, captured to return, pledging
life this soul; while addicts bathe, in sheer emotion, proud to have known this
flame. I’ve cried too much, in touch with pain, this wave of casualties; to roam
through islands, this soul as monks—this man as naïve. I say it as humble,
peering at eternity, afraid of relapse; this vexing sin, to return that space,
as if time hadn’t elapsed: this grave of mothers; this wire of aunties; this
cousin pissed to see aloofness. I died so early, to lose that grain, threshed
as one abused; where people needs, this thing of peoples, while others remain
aloof; as dying your soul, this inner cadence, to suggest that life as perfect:
this variable lie; this cry by wings; this place to suggest sightless. I passed
in turn, this mother as issue, this child to see with fledgling eyes; where
mother pretends, that all is well, for our doors are shut; but this is fake,
some sort of comfort, for one spaced through dimensions; but more to love, this
brilliant art, to ask therapy for a child; where hands are pills, and pills are
inventions, if but to reach that inner infant; where hell was bold, as to scold
adolescence, while mother puffed nicotine. I guzzled early, running with
hearts, this pavement of lost souls. We died to live, afraid of home, taking
risks these heinous streets; where home would chase, for home was heart, as to
flee a series of cuffs: that deep introject; that faceless mother; that foreign
father; where lives were short, as funerals were long, this prison of stars
raising hell; to flee by purpose, as soon to return, where daughters adjudge a
mother’s honesty; to perish by force, this inner Ghost, as to awaken a fist
filled with reefer. I had a life, embedded in deaths, this thing that became
normal; where women laughed, while committing sins, as men watched to partake
of corruption. It had to live us, this casual soul, as beautiful as pain; to
suggest a father, in needs of redemption, to feign control but lost. I held a
hand, while stirring insanity, where fathers abandoned this life. We broke
reality, some sort of madness, where Love maintained control. It’s a deep
secret, to pretend a soldier, while a woman guides our motives; indeed, I
mourn, to see this hate, as once so engraved in essence; this scared soul, at
control with grief, to aid a man in destruction; where fathers condone, this
vicious rhythm, as grandmothers praise affliction. I must retreat, silenced
through nights, standing where father pledged our allegiance.
