I lose more trying
to appease—easier to dislodge—too much agony to adore—the winter is cold, the
flame scorches, the rage breaks silence—a man living in you, the tread, the
tire, the gravel!
I know you have
life. I know you’re a winner. why are you low?
so great the rain,
it floods the soul, I was young unfitting me. so unset, days in a smaller box,
like gunning in a dream.
lately, I’ve
knitted discord, like we never hurt, I keep making errors. a man must be
self-conscious, with dear conscience, at every second. else, faux pas,
disenchant, reckless fires—deep axioms, bleed blue, with warmth feeling like
slime.
I should care, I
must be an island, too much seems touchy; the sky in innocence, the earth in
veils, much esoteria in screams—so robotic, so metallic, we forget women are
charged, alive, and dying—the music so open, the lake so rich, the reservoir
skipping through centuries—unlocked conduits, bushes unconsumable, mercy made
mischief.
what is love? it
dissipates. it requires fulltime maintenance ...
some angelic gem,
comfort carries sacrifice, most decent to ideals—those framed pictures, the
symbol of the tattoo, radio on dial eternity—as capes churn, a sickle to
emotion, a fever in a woman—it might be unreal—the gut of the coyote, the anger
of the priest, the sadness of the mystic.
through your pain,
you healed a monster, no one can ask about your faith.
