privacy is lethal,
fragile, fear and trembling. the mistakes of a past life, friction inside,
viewpoints altered by experience.
with needs to
adore Love, with ignorance high, to know I expect what another can’t give. to
wait on disclosure, or happen upon a safe person, with chemistry at one’s
lungs.
I had ideals. they
were presumed. if love, it makes essence, it’s our safety.
flowers wilt in season, they, too,
blossom, they are residual.
in a summer night, heat wafts, scents
entice, we don’t want to feel lonely.
most resilient asphalt, bags of
sand, what have I become? I carry television, channels, losing ideals; tender
skies, outliving life, art becomes imagination.
oh softer souls,
plagued by termites, ears itching, stomachs growling, made to feel pictureless;
some mishap, some illusion, mis-pegged, left to suffocate.
too dismal to feel
true. it mustn’t be the poet’s take. love is sacred. I assert love is an enterprise,
a gamble, an insistence—made by intelligence, guarding against agency,
selfless, mature. love is raw emotion, a hankering for ownership, a delicate,
fierce universe. what do I say about trust? such a creature, built on habits,
maybe misidentified. how does one escape themselves? it requires magic, careful
analyses, interior monitoring. to hold a good person, to adore with eternity, to
flame like destiny. but it isn’t just love—it’s preparation—it’s gatekeeping.
I see sandcastles,
trees at parks, designs in a squirrel. I see grass blooming, fruits made ripe,
even orchids growing wildly. I feel another’s spirit, some inducement,
something empirical. I don’t fret, nor explore, nor ignore—as candles with a
flicker, a dream with an exit, or wooing some animated cartoon. I hear some
taste as it forms where saliva fills my mouth. I seduce a thought, well into a
fantasy, while sad I must let go. if to resume life, rowing my canoe, seated
atop a roof looking into seas.
I would search the
countryside, raving over a soul, asking the watchtowers for the wellbeloved.
too much to confess, hoping for a safeguard, at some image inside, as
incomplete. so haunted by insides, attached to forces, withering into
infatuation. too aware to slip, as into a pit, making nonsense with my desires.
