the
nature is abused. the clash is by destiny. the image can’t sustain another
blow. the sentence is deaf, the message is blind, her essence is a man’s
exertion. each decimal speaks to pain; each passion surrenders to greatness;
mimicked their race to enhance our capacity. we succumb to religiosity—its
existence we know—haven’t quite gone far enough. some knowing limits, snares on
Ash Wednesday, torn, blasted, needing invention—so slanted, so adrift, the
sewer created the dungeons. shaking
dice, a nightmare on a creek, a thistle and kept local. many millipedes,
assorted or baffled, amazed at how we live. more respect, prior to the meeting,
so underrated, many fireflies, or drastically searching for magic; in which a bag,
the luggage of a terrific woman, at what point, to walk away? he was laid back, fierce when analyzed, a
man living like bosky; so filthy, too clean, too many ears. saw it like seeing
rainbows. heard it like hearing a baby’s cry. felt it in beliefs—damaged my
guts—reminiscing on how much both hated, and hate him. often, we come to terms, it’s right in our
own eyes. to pray until blubbering,
hit the floor, grabbing his sanity—and looking for a decent whiff. the wife in her negotiations, the
surprises that pop up, been at it so long, we might die that way.
