the discomfort, the sleeping fairytale,
the lamb at the slaughter—to arrive early, looking pleased, waiting for God to
show-out. give the soul life in its embarrassments if to repay for all the
hellish undercurrents; sold my spirit. gathered beans. planted my insanity. the
stock grew, roots in the land, they watched, egged on the giant, the tender
terror of the thorns; lethal legacies, banshees hopping cliffs, a man floated 1st
Christmas. so much a living reality, not too coarse not too smooth—the last
valium for its evening. no accommodations. no returns. pretty glued to negotiations.
aging at pace, nothing fancy in these here parts, such blatant voltage. to have
lived an opened box—to have died with one regret—to have never met the requirements
to rightly adore you; somewhere in line, a trillion big books, everything was
written in brail. so advanced at it, such surmising at it, so convinced it’s better
when familiar. something perfect is hurtful. something abused is cautious. something
intense might induce terror and trauma and gather a soul—in its excellence. the
pressure of the vacuum—if dying—we adore more—if living—we search out newer
horizons; not fair—to love and cherish, for love to grow and fly, to have coveted
you more and more each day—one soul, one spirit, one existence. the squeaking in
silence, the truth is valiant, we want to cherish and to become the grandest experience—we
have the capacity, we know it’s powerful, as two become the godship.
