the
lion would war by grace so faced by time or roaring at bushes. our minds
through vestibules those doors into un-realization where a soul is invisible.
such anguish in depletion or alienation such souls are raffled off to
isolation.
by
angel-palms or godly prints as creatures undergoing something irresistible.
those landmarks as carved in cerebrum while we tease the screaming walrus. so
elated at seconds or realized as altered while instruments are in stillness;
the destitute genius or those stupid savants where sociality is a drumkit. to
have arrived at an epigraph or to understand a pictograph where pain suggests
vulnerability: the want for a hand, those skies wailing, as uncured creatures
mentoring society.
I might appear as
some lonely machine with souls at his countenance. too many at wilderness or
suffused by traumas while most of us are obtrusions; as a splinter aches, so
does reflection, insomuch as we see ourselves. where beatings were accepted,
while invisibility was acknowledged, in the hope that mirrors would prove
horrific. a deep groan. an unmeasured misery. as foreigners stitched into
aggressive seams. such alleys through memories while brutality is genetic or it
becomes its repetition. the DNA of the cat. the armor of Judah. or those cries
in Bethlehem. to re-die as entrance into flying where feathers/wings are
tarred.
