We
perish this vision alive our curse as forced to survive; therewith, are
terrible abrasions, as to suffer by Christ, as long to live this atypical
dysfunction: that hectic blender; our clashes with perceptions; our mothers
despising our decisions—to crank our souls, as wretched would live, aglow a
terminal afar a curse; this face in mirrors, as private counsel, to mourn those
years ramped through cities: those iron bars; that welkin substance; this
liquor conveying his sober character; where deaths were lightning, that
grandfather at rivalries, our grandmothers spewing venom—while despising one,
as by preference that other, a bit to glowing electricity. It comes by rivers,
this hell we’ve created, at tender mercies evoking The Ghost. I know for power, but what for decency, or moreover,
that gravid recognition that alerts us to: If
it wasn’t for God, death would have swallowed me up? This valley of colors;
those bleeding ears; that voice sharing its discontent; where mother grips a
grudge, while father relinquishes justice, insofar, those mental rooms. If
death is glory, we perish: If death is rebirth, we fly; indeed, to miseries,
our mothers ramped through rehabs—our fathers amuck by uncouth trainings—where
parents die, while cleaving and clutching and regurgitating secretes—to ignore
inconsistencies, while craving completion, a bit ambivalent concerning that
christic tribunal; but more to daughters, at deaths for glory, holding for
dying a wealth of shame—where urns speak, as awaiting our arrival, as a swan
empathizes with her mentor: those hazel dreams, as confused an inch, while too
strong to claim forgiveness: this gated Lazarus; this inner mouthpiece; our
words to shivers as electric a private occurrence. We could to mercy, as so far
gone, our multiplication 7x70 per day: this deep vexation, as cried our inner
lagoon, while puffing Cuban cigars: that myth with time; our achy bones; our
dreams where control intoxicates: that beige rose; that cap by portraits; that
living room resounding some type of innocence: to hold by grace, while dying by
rules, this passage through inner cities—this turn for love, as reminded we
must repent, as turning from that exact sin; else, to mischief, this psychical
ghost, while feeling abased: that reprobate myth, as accursed a scar, while
traveling as seated churning through Scriptures. We can’t but breathe, while
afflicting others, where karma sails about a dozen inclinations: that cry
aloud; that mother caressing our hearts; our fathers to thoughts as what was
omitted; but this is life, too many abrasions, while seeking to forgive our
reflection. I must apologize—this living of lots, a bit careful to divorce a
picture perfect position; for theologically, it uproots God: as a perfect
person, I need nothing; as an imperfect person, I desire communion outlined in
mercy; as, nevertheless, I’m a foul creature, afflicted with split genetics,
while mourning those years to chaos: wherewith, comes regret; a tattered
conscience; plus, an ancient disposition, which is rooted in confliction—that
space in minds, reflecting upon an image, to see but a freckle pitted in
mirrors—as coming to justice, while maintaining distance, to give this essence
in which we desire: that heartfelt denial, while screaming at curtains, insofar,
as flickering at an image which causes debasement; indeed, I regret a demon’s
trail, as familiar with millions, while at wars those forces disrupting hearts;
furthermore, I regret this lack of wisdom, which permitted dysfunction.
