the days bleed, its shame before pride,
living insecurities. seeking immortalization, reasoning—it can’t be true—many hate
that you lived: trials, pain, addictions—looking rougher, tactile frustration,
tiles made of mirrors. it will never be right, we try to get closer, if
something brings happiness; given an opportunity, so deceitful, a woman might
opt to swim—to jump ships, disgraced, returning for help;
a soul could gloat—the goat could be
sacrificed, but does it matter?
sounding weird, of course, it matters,
expecting perfection, because it’s me, because I need it, because imperfection
becomes perfection for me.
many can’t do boundaries, nor structure,
even when, by chance, they feel obligated.
over yonder, a couple been at it 40-years,
decided in committing to excellence, forgiveness, submitting to love. deserving
admiration, deserving medals, mandalas, gold, silver, scales.
quiet marveling, it seems unreal, something
one desires for himself. so deep in trenches, eating humility, one came like
fire; a person plays pretend, by eyes in eagles, passion becomes pain, trespass
becomes disappointment, or watching another writhe—pure delight, a man dying,
fretting him, despite, his status doesn’t count. raw contradiction, rawer
uncertainty, a man will die more than he will live—a stronger fiat.
