much
into healing, a woman was specific, the curse is with us: the blood blue-brown,
the soul screaming, I need mother in a safehouse. open! a simple gesture. faith
has healed us.
from the darkside, maybe a warlock,
running fields; I imagine two, one stranger, one gnarm. sweet welkin hells—dearer
tomorrows, fleeing, flying, returning to square one; those eyes, they’ve done
much healing, undone, keeping seclusion—those midnight hours, gazing over,
listening to snores—at wonder, spiders beneath the ledges, bed bugs hiding, if I
tried, it wasn’t enough, if I failed, I deserve the curse.
I was unkempt, I lost sanity, I bounced,
a slow return—still aloof inside, so intimate inside, like waltzing with
irregularities. many are watching, I apologize, I hope the healing is in effect—changing
vatic decrees, with clauses, needing each to go further; I’ve seen cliffs, I’ve
jumped without a bungee, hands reached out, miracles are underrated. if half of
silence, resilience, in some souls!
most all of what it was has been
marred, the murk is evident, let others continue their journey. I’ll pray
today, filthy this spirit, all giggles muffled, sincerely at diamonds. the
years keep rushing, gossip is unappealing, what makes us, has become a floating
leaf—where it swoops, settles, picks up again.
I have too many issues—listening to
intentions—most need to outwit an inanimate brick wall. if thoughts are life,
most have hell to redeem, in a situation brought by self, to self. maybe
fantast winds, to winnow terrors, to cleave to a pictureless spirit. the curse
of the rose, the vinegar of the roast, the garlic at her doorstep—meant as a
wardrobe, gossamer at the corner base, an unfriendly pet bull; a nimbus at her
scalp, a tear paused for winter, a cauldron in her basement; frozen daisies,
foil around the quarters, facing a terrible quandary.
one
needs selection, determine what will be believed, before losing sanity.
