it
seems inconsequential this land of fires while water surrounds our borders. so
much an outsider, or an outcast the first to claim features. so much beauty
such a pristine cry while we adore our daughters. so alone but unrealized or
cagey for no reason or big in our illusions. upon a promise inherent by fears
as accursed by the mirror. such numen zeal such epic knitting with souls
destroying by outcry. so much a better person while most aren’t looking, where
closets burst open. but a fib in us, but pure fabrication, but it makes others
look bad – so we cleave to it. so many tinges such a second as never feeling
complete. if it pertains to justice or celebration, we tend to vent negativity.
but Love was present, she removed the knife, she sutured the wound. our pains
in ourselves as looking for understanding while trapped near a saxophone. but I’ll
find you, we shall prevail, so damaged by false love. such a torch, for a dear
soul, while I know so little—about side panels or obligations or days seated
near a furnace. trying to become discreet or catching deceit early while
participating, nonetheless. like woodsmoke or oils running low to imagine I would
leave so early. but fables, all this chaos, where many would die over
literature.
so photogenic so placeless where
faces look like strangeness.
so close holding a long spoon while
another might see a dear friend. or loving you, as never such love, while
taking pain for granted. by organic sorrow to become a centered soul filled
with outflowing; such plumbless depth, such deep ocean blue, like creatures
watching some movie. to have Cinemax to live Showtime to reminisce on
Shakespeare.
we ignore it. others get angry. for
they need us to see something they refuse to own up to. I dream through fog. I scissor
a cigarette. I appear like pain isn’t there. the covered landscape the ontic
universe or a polite way to say, “This is enough!”
