the
soul as friend, as hungry, as agitated—the money cliffs thoughts, the glory is
loyalty, a name adorning the personality.
underground
for years, seeing commercial creeping in, like a vengeance against remaining
unseen.
more
screaming at silence, stressed at survival, watching so closely one melds into observation.
the fierce flame, the inner protagonist, flustered over diagnoses.
lofty
dreams, in an unlofty baggage, seeing anger split—
—blue
moons, unclear fines, trying to outthink responses; petrified to care, unfelt
while nonchalant, needing motion, movement, we seem to wait on life—
—the
line in webs the great rain, needing where it sounds unkempt, unfair,
indifferent.
dying
like it’s an occupation, compelled like an apology, received with hostility; made to feel
unsteady, made to regret a confession, one is filthy!
