too many died last year—the
pestilence, the beginning of the ending; a grin for survivors, a grimace for
ignorance, hearing noises inside the graves; the storm blew on, Biden left to
struggle, Harris, a queen in myth, in reality, in Oakland. made an indenture,
inside a crevice, we sit and vet skin; so much more, so great a miracle, many
more vaccines to come. i left home at morning time, drove unto sunrise, found
the last chapter might be the beginning. been losing feelings, begrudging in
actions, too silent—as it plays the piccolo. it ain’t time, it is time, we need
time; three steps in a holy aura, a countenance feeling familiar—i understood
her silence. to exit in a valley, to jump on a horse, many seals to read.
dreaded. restricted. respected. loathed for the forced hand. loved. ashes on
the table. bone and gristle. sweet passion between cultures. wouldn’t have us.
so enthralled by spirits. left to see—the pain erupts in passing. too much
metallic iron, too little cushion, to then ask—How has he become a monster?
many exude resilience, carry a pessimistic/cynical attitude, most can’t fathom
the deeper experiences—as they ruin goodness, make edges round, in a dismissive
manner; to read theories—delineating pain and origin, debating from a distance,
stating hand’s-off solutions. (we see one truth, if we might forget ourselves,
we might be able to heal ourselves.)
