I
feel sad, a clutch in forward, a glass of water—that blue magic that castle
revving the engine a carry-along. I see differences I was outwitted I need a
prayer. the soul is devious or bleeding or rectified through winnings—our
casual feelings our fevered passions while I negotiate such compassion; fueled
or empty abased or on high at reservoirs or desolate creeks: daughters or
strangers, angst or anxiety, flaming or cold. those ups are giggling while
downs are laughing where in between is not existence. I feel tricked as that
fretting we feel where reality becomes overwhelming. so, to gander there, to
need some crux, as if not those we said were guarantees—autumn winds or summer
thunder or showers and sand or oceans and ships—something senseless or
something courageous while windows are blushing such decent deceits; that
oxymoron or this real life, so activated by something inconsequential. to paint
grass or to ink skies where favor was so expensive. so close it hurts, or so
indebted the passion wails while early on it was destroyed—those waves we
enflame those curvatures we plead while a soul is aching his first sentence. it
will never be right it will always be second thought while permission to die is
always viable. too afar to skip, too many mountains to see, or too many trees
for a trail.
