the
river is wilder, washing hopes, calling dreams; into mental lagoon, a nice duck,
an eager beaver, so impolite to self—sensing beauty croak, angered—beauty is
difficult; the deeper penalty, those eyes grieving, rubbed, rinsed, red,
flying. the tender tomorrows, anxiety over mental portraits, so many visions,
my face at me, decorated by horrors.
so
far to travel, wrestling immature instincts, unabashed by eerie habits.
raiding
my sentiments, ironing my daydreams, so metallic lately, too much emotion, so
deliberate in those words. feuding with galaxies, lost at war, never tried to
win; accepting mother’s belt, asking for clarity, needing to know if true, why
humans never speak it?
couldn’t
select, nor vote on this life; given screams, so intimate with suffering, so
gathered at times, palming pieces, managing my blackness.
color
became popular, albeit, misidentified, something is in waves—permeating cosmos,
trickling on our shoulders, so many converging—next to lamplights.
can’t
deny affection, seeping into feelings, an impression of a stranger:
those
terrific seconds, to admire, followed by an affront.
such
a silly poet, emotion on strings, edging cliffs upon a viola.
it’s
called word magic, or stringing, some are aching harder.
