We
speak freedom, by eclectic methods, dispensing joys; this kinetic force, our
electrical wires, our minds to winds that gentle touch; as laughing rites, a bit
to bent textures, alert enough to sin: this grin seeping; that magic wailing;
our hearts to silent sectors—to love a swan, at gears to perform, while
harnessed by violence; this achy bliss, as torn to measures, while lions claim
participation; this evil truth, our soothsaying waves, this woman by heights a
distant touch: our miracle minds, as adjusted sorely, craving by rivers that
angel’s appearance: if but for love, this voice waning, our planets by axis
distorted…to long at visions, feeling for faces, our fire at bones; to die
forever, as to live forever, while our cycles churn dysfunction…those saving
graces, that table in class, that wrenching chalkboard; as teachers wail, those
nights to sipping, or plain passing out: our dreary yards, plagued by weeds, our
pillows fraught with spittle: if be it life, this reading of thoughts, ever at
a neighbor’s audition: our smiling captures; our forgetting of self; that
second to barbeque joys—as pudding to babes, or catnip to kittens, that
greyhound guarding nothing; as music, my Love, or treasures our hearts, at
mystical threads with paint.
We
tear through sadness. We feel for frequencies. We highlight imperfections.
(This silent acclaim, as forced to capture perfections, while, nonetheless,
others are quite raggedy: our tragic explosions, peering at forgiveness, where
such has become a farce: our infants crying; our voices idling; our arks giving
way: if but perfection, this inner theme, as never to explore humans: this
wealth of apricots; that blueberry jam; those plums shushed for excavation; as
crying for love, at years for love, as to find that mirror screaming about
love; where swans soar, as captured in space, floating upon a velvet carpet:
this knitted person, as flipping meditations, while our souls harvest
injustice. It comes this way, as polishing madness, where all must agree—as if
time was gentle, to ignore the unseen, while souls incur wounds screeching for
stitches. Where walls are grounded, we acquire wrecking balls, or circle Jericho
for seven days; as if to lights, where souls are vivid, while deep in
seclusion; to swarm with love, or carried afar, peering at geese; to imagine
life, void of reason, where all caters to sternness).
Caveat:
Life is quite ironic. We give examples while never examining that we give
examples. Those same examples become a part of our lives. I know for four
generations of souls that felt it necessary to break free. What is this curse,
and how can we avoid giving shifty examples: self included; for this is living;
our days to attempting to hold things together perfectly.
