Pressure
tortures serenity; where wolves haunt a fortress, and
crows
search for bones. I remember friction fraught with
fever.
We yearned for balance, studying for mischief—lost in
by
wealth and tension. Our habits mourn—longing for
joy
and frolic at nature. It seems roots have become
vinegar,
resting on palates of salt. I wish to confront the
nightmare,
for it’s too we live when loved. But she
beckons
a storm, and grieves by violence, alert to meekness.
Endeavor
a light—fresh with pendants, lusting an evergreen
Rapture,
painted by leaves; and we crawl abyss by touch of faith.
Believe
the tightrope a walk where epiphanies speak welkin
verse,
and spoken curse a phantom’s claw. In pith, our eyelids
are
pairs of ferrets, curious to know Love—to live
ever-grown,
washed in murky waters.
