the mystery is the
hyena. like trying to figure out spirit. needing to know allotment. dice on glass. bigger dreams on ice. some
visions chase a man back into infancy.
i’ve loved like winning, only one in the blind, amazed how bold we get. wanting goodness for all, needing minds to
soar, most will become the phoenix.
the mystery is what a stranger is; surrendering to skies, moving through
valleys, pausing at a foxglove, asking for mercy; too much to survive, a soul
must heal, else lose at the last entrance.
outside is blurry, the pavement is hungry, we finally got it clear:
measures on flowers, sunshine in dreams, peacekeepers muffling pains—the ache
for memories, father an infant again, winter snug in the future. right in my image, back to mystery, loving
more—in hope of its return. many lash
out, tugging at wires, becoming anti-sacred; losing music, gaining acidic rain,
so cursed on the other memories.
