The soul—cries ghostly—haunted
by ancestors; met at spirit, acting
game-fright, never loved correctly. Too
hardened to reach clarity, an empty room,
the morning shot. Just strong enough, if but for
freedom, so treasured for presence;
tear filled palms, the soothing voice, someone to
believe in. The soul—cries ghostly
—haunted by ancestors; so blessed in
its curse, so addicted to
esoteria, refuting the
mystery, settled on asphalt and drain;
the smoky concrete, the blue rose, so much
depends on us. In vain to have more love,
one dimensional, facing repercussion.
Affected over time, each action
gets in, it must have made for pain—lavish
radiance, railway crossroads, the
crucifixion is repeated; a sentence,
an absolute take, to feel compelled to
follow fate. The weary forest—those sylvan
anxieties, all night campfire—the ways
of souls, the life-giving element, the
need for both symbols—the math outside, the
justification inside, to feel like
disgrace is necessary, to write one
off as insignificant. Never to
adore, still to love, a major set of
years, as it dissipates, feeling like old
rags, oiling in vain, so slung
asunder, the last peg of silence.
