what do we do—as words touch pavements, and death
becomes chosen; some sort of fire, this inconvenience, scraping psychic chi; to
aflame a monster, as fingers point, where emotions follow structure. i jeer
this lie, at cornerstones, to ponder a doubtful Joseph; this humble soul, as
thoughts to origins, this source of motives; while crying shame, as that thing
lingers, to want it one more time; to show us signs, as more than Jonah, to vet
a founding prophet; but more to love, those eyes have not seen, as more those
gravid beliefs; where tears are hectic, as fire is alive, to ground self in
scriptures; this fortress of cries, as one through wilderness, to utter, The One that said to me; indeed, to
live, searching for doves, to witness this outer opening. i’ve sighed deeply,
as so hard to love, where academics contradict
faith; as chasing theology, or more this dream, as to sit aside that trestle. i’m
young fire; or hectic trauma; or this child of mother’s. i’m a found soul, lost
at turns, up against something intractable: this furious force—oh as fingers
churn—so delicate this creeping hatred; to afford a scar, this place to groan,
where cheeks are refusing to turn. our nights are days; our days are nights;
where right is wrong, as wrong is right; to flourish this way, demolishing
souls, abrasions that chase eternity; that forever cycle, as sorted through
grays, where something wicked is awfully rich; but more to love, this difficult
flask, searching as crawling for forgiveness; to reach Most High, covered in
thickets, while chasing tumbleweed; this desert excursion, screaming as madmen—this
needs for surveillance; as a deep secret, to pull it away, as to witness
travesty; as fire awakens, to train a soul, To
teach us all things; this powerful message, at glories to forgive, while
human arts provoke such travesties. i read it closely, tragedy morphs, affected
through souls as eternal; to center at gardens, as fueled through centuries, to
land by plagues; that curious season, to ask for why—so many deaths and so many
scars? they call him, Warrior, this immortal Soldier, to have wrestled with
Wisdom—as given life, to one with thoughts, where one attempts to outwit
parents: it’s a mortal space; or an immortal
arm, as to becoming a lying tongue in the prophet’s mouths. i
season this heart, to charm this soul, at woes to fathom this grace; for it
means for nothing, as a mortal speaks, while anger seeps into brains; to live
as blinded, accused of insanity, while essence
remains a casualty of wars: so more to love, as something so hard, while
scraping one’s very soul.
