…such
smiley eyes, our Dearest Dove, this swanic power; moreover, by disaster, to
grow quickly, a bit jaded this life: at funeral tension, alive in darkness,
swooning over comical stages: our fears swooshing, our hearts diving, our
seafaring kaleidoscopes: at torn apologies; at mercy this daughter; while
convinced about our obstacles: those hurdles, while begging forgiveness, a tare
concerned with blackmail: those furious splinters, our days reliving our
mothers, where nights pierce with diligence: that careful future, this stigmata
essence, our re-resurrected souls…(this feudal parking lot, this feudal desert,
where one abandons such attempts: at miracle laughter, to confess pure
adoration, while gunning for something electrical: those few sparks, that steady
training, while forced to hate flesh & bone)…our predicament, as running
vessels, to pardon such vestibules: that long hallway, those transference
doors, while accounts fail to include taxes…. I’m more at blame, concerning your
essence, for mother’s business belongs to overseers: I lost contact; I lost
determination; and I appeared needing an entrance: but life is shady, this
vacant valley, this viable abuser: but dreams venture and dreams vex and
violence becomes intangible: those lit liters, those laughing losers, this lax
approach to levity: where friends have seen, and lies have run dry, where marsh
seeps into dungeons: (at wars, Love, this life for angles, so determined it
becomes agitated: to sense souls, alarmed with inheritance, to attack one
fleeing his mountains: to contemn such prose, to feel that mirror, to realize
one is held accountable: where nothing penetrates, for everything is bad, while
a nation vibrates and feeling goodness):
but back to cries, this father deliberateness, to convey presence, *if but
granted entrance*: to know by love, as opposed to feeling abandoned—while
sleeping with potential guideposts: this itchy scalp, at eczema as of lately,
our souls rebuked for pardoned: to hate a part those screams, or to sing at depth
those screams, where perfection appears as dullness: our deep cults, our
whiplash mania, or those years to inculcation: to hear ‘things’ daily, as to
become those ‘things’, where reality speaks a private dialogue: at vengeance
disputing, at rivers shooting, to peg a duck midair—those craving feelings, to
possess pure Wisdom, where controversy ensues: this land of Insecurities, this conglomerate of Mirror Walkers, or those few skyscrapers
condemned to loneness—as abused feelings, praying upon one wish, while
intercoms are wailing this encounter: as once so beautiful, as once so needy,
to locate another willing to perform: that old trash, this tossed Believer, where an old enemy became your
confidant. …it becomes feelings, it
becomes fantastical, where arts invade to speak in stories: at literature
mourning, at libraries reciting, or pushed for damaged attempting clarity: to
need this adventure, to see through deception, as to realize that some deserve
a friend: our inner contention, this convinced lose, while attempting with
passion: to long for closure, to need a personal post-office, where officials
receive a dose of clearance: those mental trinkets, as inner pathways, those
abandoned feelings, (as demon-care): while mother deliberates, and stepfather
calculates fears, and family needs a person to hate—we sing in reticence, we
dance in sheer panic, or we embrace as putting mysteries to silence: our
foolish cries, such sophisticated artists, where one seems depressed in their
abilities: this cold secret, but truth prevails, where we need total dejection
in order to aid others: our daughters feeling swayed, but this is your
inheritance, to do as it conditions internal networks: for this becomes life,
our needs as painted, our deers as panting: this brook of mire, this temple of
plaster, or this ceiling made of spackle: to feel insistence, or to feel
nonchalance, while another person’s feelings becomes your emotions: so lights
to deep concerns, and questions to every disposition, seated as queen over countless
destinies….
