…by
sheer mercy, this power curse, and coerced to feel emotion: those lucent
movies, played in our minds, forced to see lights: those thin layers, our
polychromatic lives, while pouting becomes lethal: this unreachable tear, this
gagging, repulsed, and devastated creature: to read us, despise us, with anger
wrapped in corals: those mental trophies, this wife by merits, this tale by
Sheriffs: our itchy faces, our inflamed rashes, our achy, sore, and demanded
apologies: to cross vineyards, to placate our valleys, to disappear into a
public’s loudness: our typing anguish, our dazzling, homespun, sophisticated
roses: our pruned existence, as longing at points, or feeling complaisant: our
weeping complaints, our proud children, if but those souls: or mockingbirds, to
kill a pigeon, a bit askew but maintained: our eccentric daughters, our
women-crazed sons, at mothers discounting their evenings: our washed this, our
cooked that, plus, incessant housekeeping: as so included, this career driven
machine, this refulgent priest….
…we
perish fantasies, while interviewing sanity, baked and seared: this long chain,
those priceless links, as we grow into intimacies: our Joker demons, our deep
struggles, our Batman champions: those scarecrow images, our haunted beings, or plain disappointed in
something special: our winning positions, our flamboyant silence, our easy,
pained happiness: at vaults occasionally, at thumps sudden an evening, or so
charged it’s difficult to rest at stillness: those lustrous gestures, those
recriminating eyes, our patience doctoring our woes: that estate for few, while
waxing gently, at persons soft but incredible: this mixture of wisdom, this
self-feeling agent, attempting to capture our daily intestines: at black this,
or black that, while black is remarkable: this feudal machine, as tapered with
chimes, our moments meeting fireflies: those opalescent creatures, attempting
to jog imprints, attempting to tap into something familiar or latent, a dream
to a soldier, but tears for poets: our scenic prose, or psychological prose,
headed somewhere too frightening: those giving souls, as so adjusted, tugging
our humanity: our eggshells, opened with dignity, as we shed but knowingly….
…at
once, we appear, buffing our shadows: those haunting eyes, those sultry
dresses, or plain admiration: to meet by strangeness, to feel peculiar, to
possess some sort of kinship: this place in intuition, this old familiar
something, as we walk back into our boxes: at steel pushing, at gravel
debating, at oak resting our minds: those spaces, soon trespassed, while we
churn needing more: this thing in us, this clock abandoned, while something
tugs at indifference: our protective armor, this impassive reality, where we
desire to fly…our awakened moments, to glance with intensity, while neighboring
chatter dissipates: that compelling mist, those wafting aromas, this romance in
Gotham: if but to relax, if but to sing, our souls heavy with battles: those
higher instincts, this baffling occupation, our hearts rabid about such
stillness: as introverts running, or extroverts bicycling, or young souls
disrupted by silence: our troublesome feelings, our magazine empires, or
thoughts becoming pensive reality: as tension rises, or one visits, to thresh,
debate, and hack at depression: our longer days, our inner Holmes’, or
distressed about something minor: our pet-peeves, our dramatic libraries, our
trips seated in wilderness: those graces, those faith-cords, our moments to
effacing doubts: our sorrowing letters, while glory sung, to have for someone
feeling passion: this remote cuteness, this treasure as hidden, or so far
distracted it’s hard to feel intimate: those mundane rituals, while needing
adrenaline, while changing the faces of others: at plants and fire, at soil and
water, where true happiness is developed: those readymade packages, our longing
delights, while willing through teachings….
