some catastrophe
struck the man in his mirror his charisma working his instruments.
to love like an
infant or run like a peasant or to remove errands to spend life—at vacuums so
sucked in so many fiats while we build a home.
seeing mirages or
suffering by stature, coming to realized thoughts: a man will scuffle, muffled
by storms, at a swamp swelting from heat—those lamps by terror’s interrogation,
a few problems in his spirit. looking at life, removed from properties, while
most claim identity. much space between us. much gravel at our song. so tender
into a day for rest. maybe a treasured diction maybe nothing matters, maybe
taking life for soreness; files of knowledge sweet suffering knowledge, at
gates protected by shame.
control seems an
illusion to me. we perfect what we do. we master our beings. indeed, too much
concrete spells a problem.
so independent as
sunk into mire like hives on a sunny day. born terrific, challenged by first
graces, a lifetime trying to return.
many mistakes it
comes with growth so much syrup—a delicate person in a harsh world, so desperate
to exhale. a small fever over you, a large problem for me, while things are
excellent. so blessed so sure so much a paradox. the home we built those roses
we planted while fruit falls into our garden. a British sky, in a British land,
surrounded by our dreams. occasioned to disrupt us, so much a game to us, it’s
best so seem imperfect. a river of shame a country of honors while we ignore
vital fruits. a hand at this, a friendly cloud, we ask how it went so wrong.
it was made this
way. condemned before he spoke. there was never a clean slate. coming as to
find, not to deliver, I get close to locate what’s haywire.
one feels proud of
something, something most do not respect, in terrors to sense it was all for
naught.
