so sporadic, so blessed, near an inverted curse—the mouth of the skies, falling into anxieties, filled with understanding.
it gets to that point, nothing is right, nothing is silent trespass, accursed, looking faster. can’t command invisibility—that’s the myth, so aflame into earth’s microphone. part in the name, part in the inheritance, part in accountability.
mountains riding higher, the cliffs asking for identities, a man released an album posthumously. many will listen, if to get a piece of the puzzle, but nothing will heal the loss.
many are trying harder, so be it, with meaning coming from conviction; dwelling in essence, fretting the last smile, many more to find justice.
the
songstress is out of music, the seamstress is out of thread, the last to know
with certainty has passed.
the ocean is swaying to and fro, the chaos looks adorable, the rivers are carrying history; like tyranny inside, listening to silence, seated, feeling unreasonable presence.
souls
have been set to airs, floating inside-out, rapid rain flooding intestines:
California Passion, masks, and insecurities—all on a lucky four.
