we
are with clues, the milieu is ivory, the sun sits those eyes; to grow quickly
in midst of harbingers while we wait for spectacular; such lows in me, such
highs in you, where the mind functions well. such blurry days or unforgiveness
as if this is so healthy; but each to live to carry our destinies if but the
skies view our wilderness. I try leniency, or to backpaddle and look into
intuition, but grime or mud or unbuffed mirrors are bleeding our stains; such
mucus such disapproval while it was so deliberate I got angry; to give life to
take life with such disdain for color; but innocence is a stage or feeling
elated is a fragment while one would walk away proud of your ruins. I picture
oceans I walk the pier or I run to something aloof. I meet someone it has
become its ritual but we can’t stand the presence; if but to fathom those
deeper realities while becoming one’s mother isn’t met with harmony; but yours
are pinken steaks or lavish fries or mashed potatoes: an endearing friend a
soulfelt midnight at orange yams. I stagger into a tear I wipe and become
fierce if but to re-channel something beyond redemption—for God hates or
goddesses seek vengeance while a man is always wrong; this society where it
must die this mercy we give; so filled with venom or wondering closely—why so
many are looking and pointing at cages?
some
believe strongly in a clause which deteriorates humanity; to grimace at a smile
or to play harshness while the mandolin is unclean. I was told to be careful, I
spun a number of jealousies, but time told about us—this situation. it dies in
me, this purple haze, where mannequins are conversing my life with pantomimes.
The Ghost is present or a doctor is listening while feelings are reneging; this
emotion-pain this feather-game if but to suffocate from royal bane; but Love is
small evaluation or numbing silence where we bury inconsistencies: “It never
happened, it cannot be diamonds, or it hurts too much”; so, refrigerators or trashbins
or tucked so far-in the walls are becoming disrespectful; for something is true,
in the web of profanity, if self isn’t interested, phantoms rarely come to
assist. A year is coming. I do not request anything—especially, something where
it can’t be given. to sing as sung to ripple closeness or to die a little for
others. it doesn’t register, it is close enough, while building-blocks become a
personality’s edifice; those eyes, so coarse with life, while attempting to
love something it was taught to hate; such gumbo such broccoli such ribs and
ham-hocks with a face listening to its mother. it seems reform has its prices,
and angular love has its sacrifice, while I will adore you as long as you
refuse to see me.
