it becomes a tone
separate of paragraphs while some are able to please. it becomes a talent or it
becomes gender or it becomes pigmentation. our minds running our fevers gunning
our nightmares carried so endearingly. some ingratiate. they are excellent.
they passion in the art. such beautiful souls so indebted while a bit much in
resistance.
the fields are magnolias the garden is zinnias or
those roses are sorrowful. such prescribed condition those cascading cares
while predicted to wrestle.
I walk by reality.
I see it seated. it has paraphernalia.
I see bottles or
olden bikes or multiple bags—as attached to a shopping cart.
I think of
academia those vines our hearts or havens racing to become their voice. such
gorgeous jamesias such mind-bilking insanity while tugged in a shower sipping
something strong. as abandoned to helping as gorging on humanity such sweet
nectar.
those souls at conflict while it’s more our
participation if but to give more than we might summons. so much a feeling so
great a feeling so tender, the mystic; as theological creatures embedded in
fury while art determines a little pain.
too much at
predicament too much at our feminists while I wonder why we needed womanists.
they see a person coming it might infuriate it might be met with kindness. what
must we give in order to reach a space where love flows freely? so much in our
eyes so much in our loins as to sense such delicate uneasiness.
a xyst of
marigolds a fretting feeling where we sense our darkness.
space begins its
speech as alone with time to evolve through emptiness. such temperament into a
gloomy pit while communicating with open skies. our dreams challenged our souls
closed-off, while many wonder about such dear resistance.
