I’m
a serious creature, tugged by Ecclesiastes, reminded of the sternness in our
eyes; to have studied our paths, to realize the godhead-self, or fractured by
science. I met the atheist or sung the tenets while it is now a blur: a man
defending God, where God is dismantled, while one is quite arrogant. I hear
the water, I wade the lands, a person of minor travels. I’ve irritated lesser
souls, or conceited souls, while countenance was both earned and inherited; a
stronger woman, a stronger structure, fraught by addict behavior. Mother was
lethal, but elders were kind, we sing a different existence. I couldn’t find us—compelled
to search, to swim, where I met a seahorse; our careless frolicking our dear-to-death
cries while immortalizing women.
So
young those days. Or too naïve.
I wouldn’t
imagine in blue skiing skies something so treacherous.
I met
a lady—a judgmental creature—while I evaluated my response. It was passive
alertness or critical silence where neglect becomes rejection. To imagine closeness,
so knitted into moodiness, or bound to a controlling value; our soul-museums
our morning odors our winks or kisses or violet attitudes—to have died in you
or to adore like living in you where reality has become a witness against you;
such by evidence to conflict with behavior this element driving me.
I can’t
fathom deep dishonesty while we build our homes: the house is built on sand!
I saw
a person, by astute intuition where I saw therapy:
the stance in your
eyes the angel at your pencil or those harsher assessments; the ink at your
door the rooms in your mind or the response in my perception.
Such
difficulties—the nail-posts at concrete, while many families owned people; this
legend as it moves this reality as it churns while deep deflection turns into
deeper attraction; the movie in me those measures in essence at something too
terrific to sustain; by orientation or self-preservation or desiring a nocturne
sky; to accept our dispositions or to adore what dislikes us while upon ocean-skates
or critical indecision; our hypothetical worlds or graver insanities if but to
isolate for romance to blossom; we hide as seldom seen or better, we’re always
conscious of perception—as hypersensitive or maladjusted where the world must
hate us.
I couldn’t love or
dare I love what I fail to fathom.
So dear to us this
pain we carry or the joys we paint.
As devout souls so
committed to horizons while tiptoeing our rainbow.
Our posts
screaming. Our hearts thrusted. Our sword growing its petals.
To resist. Or battle.
Or become.
