i was sold on survival, at souls
inside, greeting myself in salutation. the lines made wiggly, the rules made
wobbly, aside seeing the chase, the land, the foliage.
would locate pieces of self, in
some mental wilderness, much debris found inside. to wrestle with the dragon,
shaped by circumstances, bathing in politicism.
the days are shorter, into design,
some part is racing through the aging agenda. upon sound inside, or daffodils
along shorelines, or in the distance, a feeling made gray.
the seed was planted, the problem
is its chase, like animals at play. so amazed at my weaknesses. so protective
of my weaknesses. many watching—just for weaknesses.
i was sold on survival, listening
to instrumental, seated beneath the church portico. most intensive miracles.
most viable persons. the yoke is rarely even.
most soothing invention—more at
weather those days—waxing wise in the rain; volcanic succession, temporal
options, revalued observation;
to let go and let live, visiting
some place inside, and walking away inside.
drums and music, as parted to
society, souls and humans, spirits and psychologies; to begin with a tale, if
to distort some truth-claim, if it must be right—because it was preconceived;
as younger animals, in a newer
kingdom, participating vaguely—like a passive receiver, waiting for an urge,
soaring on occasion.
the flower wilted. such a terrific
flower. so deceived by uncanny energies. (moving in silence, looking
conspicuous, the countenance debating if it needs privacy, or aid.)
a solo debate, enchanted
by agonies, weathered by interior; facing centuries, running into woods,
spiking through fields—headed northbound; some agency, as in genetics, we come
out running—holding pieces of cotton and tobacco. something inside the beast,
the instrumental, the first to have noticed, the first to have consecrated the
ashes.
alike to a special lady,
in the trenches, to take notice, to spend time, to augment, when most never
noticed her rights to breathe, soar, challenge the status quo. most hope. we
get closer. too much depends upon orientation, aside from good deeds, affectation,
reaching into another person’s soul.
i was sold on survival,
at souls inside, greeting myself in saltation; some nemesis, some anti-me,
while inside the mirror, clasping to annihilation; something taught to dislike
itself—something taught its destiny—based in part—on another person’s
experience—and then, it was divided into schisms. no need in dredging up the
many differences in pigmentation—the dearest internal fight ever concocted.
suffering survival.
watching and washing survival. pro-survival.
