the
bushes of mindstates, the grave getting closer, what’s your legacy, Writer?
so
gorgeous, so deep, many hate you.
so
pictureless, a petty problem, most operate differently.
I
count pictures, scoping eyes, serious in disposition. many having fun, the days
are empty, the skies are lonely.
most
filled with screams, a lotic pressure, at tithes for forgiveness; we’re paying
Jesus, skipping true works, nothing changed last year.
not
as if, more as perfected, sweet excellence.
bark
in souls, branches as intellect, twigs in underbrush; many talking about it,
more trying at it, a few walking it; a dear temper, authoritarian, like most
aren’t.
play
the violin, sand the piccolo, at moments, grovel.
it
was easy for me. I saw a sign. I kept my distance. anger ensued.
a
reference might not come. many might tell Jesus. many more will gossip.
one
tried. it creeped out. many seem uncomfortable.
a
whole life at her knees, a deal with Pain, like deception isn’t uneasy.
dirty
plums. rinsed oranges. another bottle of Gatorade.
