Well,
we sin humanity. We die into each other. We session in indirect fuses. This
pudding so thick. This religious pain so vital. Our truths iced into our
furnaces. Our women as presidential. Our executives as transparent. Our tedious
curriculums producing critical thinkers. But I lose feathers. I flicker and
flap frantically. As a pigeon, a flipper, I’m tied to fishing lines. I try kindness.
It lives in this dungeon. Where hell is too sweet. I must forget. I must be
heroic. I must forgive. This color rages. This color pages. Our angst is
revving its principles.
I
was so young. I looked into behaviors. I became unsaid destruction. I always
thought spirits. I saw so many. They coursed through grape galaxies. I heard
about survival. This common language. I thought about more than this
definition. So swift to complain. So coarse at penalties. Or so forbidden it
felt privilege. Our miracle pains. Our miracle Bishops. Our churches providing
fires. I looked and felt demands. I longed in pressures. But it felt good to
converse. This mother profanity. This childless father. Or this perfection
creeping, which hides from its audience. So clustered. Or such a cloister.
Where reality appeals to a few people. This battle angst. This cave flying. Or
this sky enveloping a young man’s hopes. Our fury with women. While searching
for purity. If but incumbent upon a person disowned. This floor mirror—this
ceiling mirror—too agitated to maintain a sweet, calming, and delicate voice.
Years
would die. As years would cry. Debating excellence.
Our
God fears. This perfect, non-abusive, divine phantom.
To
engulf darkness. To restructure mystics. To die again—
As
with this sinner. Our brown eyes. Our intent to fly.
Those
days at fretting. This pilgrim in chains. To wonder about walking freely. So
watched—so taught—such a man at pavement conversations. Too young to disappear.
Too influenced to distinguish. And too proud to confess chasms.
I
fire in shames. As if weakness carries flame-guides. Where insanity is apropos.
This tepid sickness. This feud in perceptions. Where it’s alright to take a
person’s soul; for one spoke diamonds, while another spoke blackdamp, where
both were high off of soot. Accustomed to abuse. Effused by profanity. So
enlove at first glance. Or so silent at second default. Or running through this
life under so much delusion. As reminded to slow pace. Or seated while being
afflicted. To realize a leader in that profane mirror.
Secular
holy lusts. Combined or rift asunder. As a human left home as half a person. So
attracted to fishing. Or so immune to a saving voice. Or catching a feeling
where feelings are incorrigible. Retreating in unspoken loudness. A thump to
something holy. A feeling killing evaluation. Or something so inflated thoughts
have merged. This illness so sweet. Those dimes flipping into ponds. As this
duck chokes upon a nickel. Brown eyes. Blue eyes. And green eyes. At something
hazel. At something gifted. While so simple it moves interior. Our raving
swans, our musical sanction, re-baptized, in search of an Arabic blessing. This
rock bearing witness. This donkey holding weight. Or this woman claiming as
necessary. So courted by Ecclesiastes. Or running into Sophia. This vocal
mistress. Too young to have her. Too old to lose her. Or too deceptive to
believe in mirrors.
