reality
remains undone—the person is poetry—its highs, its pits. I reflect in shadows,
knowing its hidden, hydrants are open—rushing down hallways, mosquitoes glued
to ceilings, floorboards unfastening. clocks are breathless. clouds form
inside. trust is in surgery.
gnats
swarm in droves—the rumor is forgotten, if made righteous, if made righteous!
the
persona is like a novel, with turns, twists, plots, characters.
enmities.
meetings made rough. drafts without insistence. judgments without deliberation.
it
shouldn’t matter. a soul will tiptoe. evidence will be muffled.
I
can’t forfeit these cards, nor will a spirit unveil amid an arena, nor will
souls appreciate disclosure.
tales
told afar and wide, speak displeasure in pits and piles; more a scream, a dream
to others, days are spent listening to digestion.
reality
gets little justice. crops are synthesized. harvest is placed on hold.
I
will reap in silence. many will chase the silence. many will become silence.
