the long walks through darkness the
miles we can’t escape the soulprints piercing umbrellas; as an achy spirit,
made livid through illusion, power belongs to silence. multiple penetrations,
as a wolf eats meat, many more parcels in trees. aside a boulder sits a man
struggling to move it. he must carry it. it’s too heavy. he will die proving
self to manipulators. those rooms are filthy—laundry sprawled out—webs and
spiders, bugs unidentified; he brooms under the bed—pencils and pens, dust-bunnies
and socks—a notepad. many screams are inside of tales untold where they slip
into swirls; many carrying pain and restraint and anger. the soul absorbs its
inversion. a small incident becomes a reason for war. as this is true, there’s
an issue, to whom do we listen to—in what capacity is something small? most
anything can take on a life—most solutions come out of desperation, considering
grander scales.
the soul relishes in deepness,
settles with rain, pours into meditation.
if it was easy or hard or scared or
frightened—if it loved or hated or cleaved or resisted—it had a place in humans.
I see places in woman as stars
bright in space with scents wafting from a dungeon.
there’s much in the soul of humans,
running into it as we do,
collecting an inherence of
calamities.
(mutiny is a hawk, a pawnshop, one
must be so much to receive so much.)
—we have such in common, living the
penalties we live, enduring the agonies we knit.
—something matters, needing
unconditional acceptance, rising in essence. removing pots from the garage.
replacing old paintings. cupping gallons of indecision.
—too unique to be understood, too
ambitious to be loved, too much integrity to regret being human.
