It
comes to light, this favorite secret, known by the multitude of words; as
hiding from self, while others perceive—this warped fixture; that type of
thinking, at tales to wilderness, or favored as our muddy lagoon—where clarity
pauses, as pure proclivity, if must we sit in stillness—this activity by
brains, to float by bodies, this type of looking at self; that morbid charm,
that bowel of grapes, our taste-buds craving sweets—as tender a toothache, our
yearly cleansing, where children desire truths…that outer anger those shards embedded in shag our pillows soaked in saliva…to come to
terms those seconds as immortal our weekly apologies; where cried thitherto, sensing steep obscurity reminded about family Ziplocs. We chase tendencies, our carpets our
soulprints, to meet ourselves racing through dreams; that velvet mirror those mutable gestures whereto, our harvested expectations: this
existential, so concerned with ontology, a series of scholars absorbed by
abstracts: our logic symbols; our peeking at metaphysics; our onlookers
accusing us of scripturalizing—if but to exist, those philosophical branches,
but a child running through ghettoes…as such to life, this inversion of traits,
as becomes our nervous ticks: to sing of justice, where gavels are aching,
while we support family…this tale of lectures, our hands trembling, as never by
thought, She’s filled with ghosts. It
comes to shadows, as purely psychological, our personhoods at wars with brains:
if could to live, as quite bestial, while void of utter rebukes: our
socialization, as unending modification, where one deduces this family chasm:
that far-ago vision, to envisualize harmony, by cringes to realize
destruction…as asymmetrical, aligned in misprints, totally oblivious over
coffee with wafers—this dirge of nightingales, that sad blue jay, our internet
fiascoes—to nurture affection, but always wrong, where others skip by an inner
tune: this right of souls, where compromise spells union, while alienation
speaks to a frightened heart…to find for love, this passionate lightning, while
thundering through existence…to possess this feeling, as knowledge points to
dysfunction, where learning reveals those myriad inconsistencies; as
remembering life, while fleeing life, to build some type of cocoon; where
mother’s secluded, as father’s boxed in, while we remain hidden from this inner
story. We come to lights, fretting our
secrets, our minds at warfare; or more to clarity, as parents got it right,
while hearts flourish by success.
