preemptive
strikes. they confuse artillery. made a mass of addling. more terror in those
years, more fear, evilness does not rest. a wrested man. a cordial, distant,
calibrated man—with a linchpin, in sometimes, out during its season. radical
features. at another’s disposal. the carnival is all night long. some just
speak, others just calculate, some are near catatonia. the dream is so vivid,
much of those riches, many beautiful people.
time will tell,
while I rethink circumstances, people warned me—I tampered regardless.
aside a cypress
tree sits a squirrel. it watches, eats popcorn, runs in circles.
I sit as a
prominent spirit, a mystic in flesh, studying visceral emotions: the pride of
the vagabond, the viciousness of the reprobate, better, the one religiously dedicated
to black magic.
there’s a dark,
gloomy reality—it enters at capacity, those boxes become symbolic. to see life
brimming in pure dysfunction, at so much an apex, we admire its power—it knows
not how it operates.
praise for one.
cages in absence. rainbows signifying a covenant. I left behind what I could
not conquer, could not defeat, myriads at murky ponds. the consensus says he’s
lost. I do understand. so leave him lost; nay, darkness operates differently.
how does one fit
our priorities, notwithstanding, being lost?
in the sugar fields,
the cotton lands, the tobacco ancestry. something beneath. something
indomitable. something we must harness.
we whittle
sociality.
two people meet
each other, immediately at wrestling. it isn’t serious, it’s just bodies, we
exist in shadows.
