in
the days leading to the riff, an aged man, looking back on shady behavior—many
rules, so capricious, abashed, where the dirt is muddy. in the amusement, one
fails to reflect, with negativity planting a grove. but i’ll let go and let
live, with a livid disposition; eyes gleaming, Love looking, it becomes sport,
sacrifice and rain—to eat a clock, to tick silently, like healing is a miracle;
in the days leading to you, each triumph is a challenge, offered to a soul too
indebted to see his reflection; the mirror so innocent, so nonchalant, with
souls running out of time. too much guilt involved, too much desperation, at
the end of the road, we clock out. the heirloom is the agony, the treasure is
the first passion, so inside of my understanding. in the days running to skies,
flippant like a thirst, measuring others by the marks of my insanity. maybe
it’s good over there. maybe vegetables over meats over there. maybe lovemaking
is unrelatable. just perhaps, the skis into the tales, the mountain so high,
it’s like—it’s not our fault! same old song, same standing in stillness,
selfsame shock and diamonds. those lips, to have christened my spirit; those
hips to have given birth; in sickness, i felt some type of ownership. in the
days i sinned, I confessed, the world keeps spinning—the apology is in the
forgiveness.
