we give the best of the soul to
another person. we swear in faith, the loud charity, to couch a tsunami in turn
for a Hiroshima. the want to be in control, might become the dig into the
grave, as if a man gives her soul, he loves, to another. as to partake, to do
as we have done, as if to un-care, to damage the sight, to ask another sense
the intimacy of one’s existence. if one hasn’t loved, at full capacity, it’s
coming in due time; by the chimes out front, the bulb and the fireflies, the
dreams as far into the volcano; the Will Smith’s of society, the Jada’s of our
earth, as to assume a soul will harvest a plural outlook, if so, something
might appear broken. into my dreams, into my unspoken features, into the depth
of a soul he never met—a person, happy to have troubles, in spirit, to again
surface as triumphant; the inconsistency Oprah sees, the baffling conundrums,
the hope in entertainers to condone the scream of togetherness; a confusing
understanding, as to appear perfect, even hell becomes deliberate—as formed, as
put together, as deep into some science; the eyes of one crying, the arrogance of
one croaking, the excuses of one embarrassed. the positive spin on anything—as angst
bleeds into the stages, as Denzel locks eyes with his spirit, or T. D. Jakes
severs the arts of losing angelity. if to sing again, if to adore like students
again, the pride we have summonsed to deal with travesty.
