I get into a worry
as souls bled those diamonds wailing into dirt. the fear of the falcon the
closure of the hawk, a rabbit seated next to snakes. by an ink pen, dreams
gouged, like unawake, walking into a nightsong. fretted for anxiety, raw,
unconditional contempt—the blurry fire, those blue flames, with skies tearing
into dark lights. so dim, a cheetah resurrected, an instinct to plead—like begging
for peace, arranged in happiness, like it meant entire bliss. bold forgiveness,
cries in houses, haunted with favor. puffing with a banshee. it should go so
well. I’ve said nothing. it
seems obvious. the thing souls do. the way we rebuild each other.
furious drums in a
tribal essence the last ritual for the dead. never!
robbed of instincts, jogging in
heart, so close to regaining her composure. a soul as it opens. forest rain.
tropical dangers.
I watch. some give just enough.
nothing is special while we hold tighter.
I’m listening to fables, aphorisms,
things we slant our minds to believe. something is missing.
I ate more emotion, I rethreaded
integrity, most never cared. many are secure in longevity, withering or
flowering, filtered, then re-filtered. I’ve said nothing.
the last mistake
is the last breath, seasoned in control. a magic leverage, a winning delivery,
if to gallop forever.
