On
a good day I feel low. On a phantom day I feel lucky. Those tears, moving
ravines, in a trench, giggling at time, mocking self, so small, so dangerous,
to sustain so much pain.
I
taste raindrops, gushing meadows, water drops, terror eyes, so seduced by reality.
I
breathe her, I dance in shadows, so much an apricot, so much thrusting
factions, aloof to sincerity.
So
quiet, so lonely, desecrating each to have adored, in acorns, the rage of the
piano.
Too
great to sin, to sin, nonetheless, at pictures inside, bodies bent in halves,
split asunder, begging forgiveness, one to grant it, for a hundred cries.
So
sickened, so much laughter, while she dies trying to fix a lonely desert.
At
once, some creature, some problem, if to adore like one second, so designed in
one instance, silver candles, bleak sunrise, to know no one quite cares.
Running
into faces, chasing mirrors, each image is testimony—to pride, oaths, oats with
grains; so fierce it destroys, trekking through marsh, eating mayflies, traveling
deserted intestines.
