Thrumming wings. Brain fog. The pain in the deliverance; the
suffering in the Cross; the loss of the chains. Woodsmoke patience, penial
gland angst,
the organizing features; surefire zealous, at
numen flame—to have arrived early enough to resurrect; the grand
incarnation, the trivial everything, such organic women.
It seems so easy, picking devastation, love is like dying, it’s
creative—the bone in the marrow, the mind-saxophone, a bag of breadnut.
Take me broken, help me to break the barrier, at present, there’s
blockage.
I was so free. I loved to fly. The mask on the dragon drinking
berries.
Love is phenomenal, I had to say it, never a woman given so sweet a
lecture. Keys on pianos, the firewood, I damn near weep out!
The doorsill contains the birdsong; a man died this morning. So much
an opus, walking around, I damn near died to have her!
Some flippant fable, one would imagine, I must die for every woman!
