burnish
our guts. protect innocence. for we adore, nay, we worship our children.
meanwhile, I see you, disputing claims, so smart, so hectic, so un-deceived. I taste
energy. it bleeds in me. while it erupts in you. so little devotion our way.
such tether or cuffs or flashlights. by remorse to chase. by growth to say, “I
was wrong.” (a crush for an adolescent, a holy fury for an adult, while wearing
masks.) it seems easy, to proclaim affection, into bottles or literature or
spinning memories—to come to excellence or favor skies in a land divorced from
its actions. so frightened! I still journey. while a group doesn’t ensure our
souls. such rapturous the mystic. such pure inebriated fire. to relish in
activated forgiveness. but never was it those roses. or never was it those
thorns. while if I harm you, you should be the Christian. (seven times seventy
per day.) we can’t live that. the picture is distorted. we barely forgive the mail
lady. such debt to souls to have unlocked a maze while in mind I chase or disappear.
I was baseborn, Father. such a breed! so cloven, unredeemed, or given gifts for
suffering. such resurrected scarves. to speak to bones. with enough strength to
summons skin. touché to obstinance. even more to those straight lines. or
better, to ensuring wholeness. our ground has fallen. our mind-pastor is off
duty. and something is jotting notes!
