by
churning heart to fathom being so torn so locomotive so mystic. at
sunrise phantoms to ponder daily some creature I’ll never vigil—the polite moon
the dismantling sun or so bothered by our beauty. to wrestle intensities to
feel like motion while some are unsatisfied: “the poet is callous. he sees
things differently. or he has antipathy for me.” so needless but said, those
screams we bury, after years of playing doormats. our baffled minds our mental
ghosts while attraction is unruly. it was never us but it seemed enchanting
where one walks further into those thoughts. it becomes unpleasant, it desires
what it wouldn’t manage, it curses present magnets. to mystic into silence to
capture an afflatus or to sing so softly tears erupt from their pits. I remember
a woman, sitting in stillness, such to unleash a dam. I was curious to ask. I was
sympathetic. but those tears belonged to a lover. such deep guilt such
wrenching pain where I’ve seen it often. one is dying, another feels guilty,
while another is ruse or dynamite. but Love is cement or Love is china where
ritual is devastation. to increase in value as one in blossom, so tender so
remarkable so soft. if but that feeling as we become familiar insomuch it’s
orientation: mother is with father, close to thirty + years, where this is our
symphony!
