locked
inside an acorn—the light bearers, so sweet the sour/bitter waters. eating
dirt, sniffing dust, stark raven mad, in dusky lakes—the film rolling, the gods
squabbling, so stuck in our destitution.
such
chilly children, such gorgeous gears, assailed such anxiety; to anticipate as
it comes, self-prophecy, the world gunning at itself.
the
greatest enemy sits in a mirror talking its language, lying to itself, craving
after a legacy; those jasmine weeds, a plate of kale, while we believe in a jukebox.
tender
calligraphy, as made spiritual, she needs a purchase—perchance to feel glee, as
motivated, into forgiving our mirrors.
so
much a newcomer, too wild the grays, while pleading for leniency; some figure,
as never a glimpse, else crossing over into insanity; such a monopoly on
visions, so quick to point to errors, a softer kiss in spirit.
so
much a woman’s aura, such ink in her countenance, so much surviving pain; Dom
Perignon, a bag of promises, so trenchant each second—the blown scenery the
breaking sun, as she palmed a star; some secret to it, mental magic, not some
unknown person—nets for snares or cages for freedom, so much here one loses
there.
the
walkway is down a street, around a corner, next to a lady with numbers in her
flesh. like old wine, associated with miseries, in waters wading or waxing
younger—the courage to fight, by all means, dear God so much a dying prosperity!
happily
unhappy, or fiery cold, at unwet shivers—the river carrying rice, the fields
carrying sugarcane, the angst exploding into excellence.
