I’m
but a human.
I
get angry or dance incognito at some channel in you; to perish feelings to
frantic a nightmare as kissed by sunrise; this estuary silence this black mass
so careful to agitate you; our irritable souls our white owls while granny is
somewhat furious; those mystique eyes or those dark circles while hot yoga has
worked a miracle; but a mandolin upon an island so sickly discreet; as needing
attention such a torch to air-pockets while such frequencies rage sublime; our
uncaged sentiments our human proclivities so sunk into forgiving decencies.
I’m but a human so
incomplete so concentrated on flame; but a crucible existence but life in
passion to have placed so much on you; asking for redemption requesting baptism
or looking for savior-like qualities.
In
terrible frustration or calm wilderness exploring or imploding at silent
essence; those wars inside this fury we carry while dependable rightness; my
last grip situated in passion to sudden into something excruciating; searching
for solvent or manicuring misery while thinking one adventures by cadence.
Such
postmodern mistakes such whisk it must be ghosts.
Those melodic palms those
soothing tones at treasures by sheer abandonment.
By
guts or phones alarmed or suffering—so much dust or desert or sheer
determinants. To live as semi-spirits to reread existential invoices or to map
something perfectly; those puzzled emotions or genius insanity while feelings
thrum intuition; those lost moments those last impressions where most feel pure
disinterest.
I’m
but a human.
This sheer contradiction
while fleeing or flying or fevered. Those swift anxieties this shift in angst
while a man tackles his inner condition; retracing or regrouping as
captivated creatures by saxophone or salience; thereinto, this passionate lute
this playful liar at deep pensiveness; to die forever, as to live chasing
immortality, but a key to a locket on planet Humanity; so unique in
weaving as so complete in ambivalence or so content with one’s secrets; while
days are powerful where guts are sanctioned those eyes cringing joys.
Maybe
a pathbreaker or some gentle maverick appointed by something unimaginable; or
maybe a guru a Zen artist or an ancient unbelieved god-figure; maybe so
familiar by dark knowledge where Walcott is intimidated; so left in thoughts or
scientifically a hostage or painting a paradoxical portrait; our fire, those
times, to think unclearly, or to imagine a careful mystic.
