the
wheezing is bled of facts the ceiling bleeds—of variegated colors. so varnished
so eloquent so hurt.
most
stingy with affection, icy over belongings, seized by frustrations. most stingy
about fortune the gift is meant to receive those landscapes muse upon
existence.
repolished
a bit under-pledged, most have a time with altruistic commitment.
by
raven origins or crows gathering upon a frequency they scatter. ten feet deeper
at fangs or venom while most avoid confrontation. it seems easier while a soul
drops so faced by Armageddon—a series of sarcastic tailors or a woman good at
satire, or to realize, “He isn’t saying much.” a compliment is undermined, or a
soul is too haughty, or it irks people when others are awake. it might be true,
I do apologize, but we seem to advocate for servitude—not out and out slavery,
where some might, but intellectual protocol.
I was
smitten with a situation, while they tried injury, I felt quite objective. I debate
its coolness, for ‘others’ specifically, how does it come across?
souls
are in attics. they watch closely. (I do apologize.) but most seem vigilant.
wrenches
and pliers, screws and bolts, we each trust our conclusions — (one might deliberate
longer). leaves rustle against grass, winds whistle, humans become supersmart.
lemons
flood the front yard, apples have a few worms, there seems to be a price for
each home.
little
things make up existence, a few big things make it sufferable, or even sheer
delight. what would Nietzsche say to Kierkegaard – or King Jr. – or the present
writer? we never ask, we assume, it’s a protective device.
roosters
are running wild, so prized, so vulnerable.
bobcats
are harassing raccoons both might have rabies.
strangers
are pushed away and pulled closer—we have decoded identity.
never
with him, while others, maybe, but he must give respect—and help by solidifying
an image.
