The essence of the misnomer the
mistake the problem; brains realigned, the window into the chaos, the gravel
into the soul, sealed and delivered—feeding a lacewing; playing with chalk,
ghetto symbolism, most building a fortress. Souls facing witchcraft, to possess
what denied you, how to possess love and compassion and realism; if it thrills,
if it was earned, is it genuine? The opera in choir, the fiction in reality,
the pretend becoming a part of daily contemplation; the mind ballad, the pistol
feeling, the nightmare so beautiful. Those scribing souls, the heart made
see-through, the glass buffed until it scorched; a nest for spirits, a lamp for
memories, like a match, sudden into a flame. The phone might ring, the machine
might answer, a person sits there debating what can’t become fact: inner
jackals, mental wolves, to carry his whale.
