With miracles so close, dying with prophets,
aggressive like passive mongooses; the fire inside, to need to share it, did it
all for liberation, the freedom of the unfree. Swearing is a hazard, debating
the last Promise, a land filled with milk and honey. Some women—we never release; despite, a
sky filled with tragedies; looking to win, with tear on her road, the flowery
dress, the clean flesh; begging for mercy, flames wafting into clouds, so
desperate to love; or quite wretched, quite deceptive, a man damn near
deceased; great at helium, bodies passing gates, such titillating suffering—the
curse of the fiend, the friend of the sinning, holding to a broken ideal; and
Love is wonderful, Love is unbelievable, and Love has left. Just a young, naïve
soul, desperate to achieve you, lost in pains, so dedicated to the last trauma.
So gathered, like berries, it’s always sin.
