I feel
like music, so tragic, so pure, so reused; floating through messages, adored by
ruth, fleeing or returning; listening by silence, reminiscing our hearts,
seated in steamy feelings; our minds so sensitive, those stairs so low, at this
month again; but birth is new, while misery is ancient, whereas, joy is most apparent
for souls; those songbirds, this gut-thing, this phone those nights; as alive
and sick, as purchased and given redemption, lit by condition; our regeneration,
our predicament, our sacred pyramids; this arena with monsters, this wilderness
with lions, this cave with philosophy; our desirous aches, our years
increasing, our women running ten miles a week; something to it, even a mumble,
but life designed this; us-or-them, our kids or us, our lives chasing
sorrow; such negotiated feelings, such reaching emotion, while a man comes to
grips
with
his needs; to have or die, to possess or rethink, to give all in celebration;
such curves, so lonely, but always next to comfort; so familiar, so lost, so
destined to re-give; a bandit heart, a culprit soul, at a book thought in
Aristotle; our field aches, our prison stripes, our people while we never met;
so boss with pain, sweating with fame, so cured in music; so many characters,
so many reasons, as met a different person twelve months straight; looking at
three, confused by thoughts, reminiscing in patience; glamour or sacrifice,
psychs or deaths, or something in-between—this therapeutic, those theories,
while a soul reads for survival; for life his mind, this firm haven, while,
therein, becomes a nightmare; at grayness, at zones, at flame and misery.
I try
to omit it, living this way, at a post looking at signs; walking flexibility,
rejoicing she lived, or proud the pain has ended; this deep belief, while a
tear is curious, for why would it end; it seems arbitrary, such a suggestion,
while we have a little evidence; Dear God to give, Dear God to pass life, this
top row ticket; seated and waiting, this tribunal show, and getting closer; to
see mother, speaking loudly, accusing a man for soulless manifest; but God
should know, or an angel might speak, as I step through that door; such
knocking, such running, looking for Jesus; at Mary with feelings, while
something is sacred, afforded three deep breaths; or looking at bright beauty,
confused but quickened, so edified.
You’re
the strongest.
I envelope
a feeling, staring with figurines, at old wolves; I heard a hyena, I felt an
earthquake, but I wonder: Is it God? Is the feeling caring? Does connection
denote emotion? I soon return, a barrow of fire, a small seaquake, a living
miracle; but never before, maybe once, or maybe twice, or maybe I can’t know;
life was simple, a man had ego, pride, and deep confidence; it knocks around,
it hits the mat, a hat a moon plus something serious. I walk in silence, I barely
look, while searching and looking; I chatted pain, I couldn’t lie, I broke
eye-contact; I looked around, I dazed off, I gazed at a flower—she parted ways;
but I couldn’t feel it, it seemed homogenous, it seemed controlled; but it was
grazing, it was faint presence, while angered I was ignoring it; something
alike I guess, something to sadness I supposed, while looking in persons—eternity!
I come
back, but dearly altered, listening to confliction; that is, we say our armor,
we claim our resistance, while so facial with ingratiation; for example: “She’s
white, you shouldn’t do that”, but the soil is at an opportunity; pacing halls,
becoming noticeable, and finally struck wells; I walk left, I turn right, I reflect;
this sky song, this songstress passion, this myth—but some are hanging, where
tomorrow is knitted, while Love adores his edgy tone.
