I try to understand spirits
as souls, with avenues posed as synaptic gaps. I try to love what hurts with
trepidation squelching a feeling, in which, would ache, the fire of the flicker.
She might in an instance the frame of the contour, in ruts bleeding the breath
it might breathe. Most would oppose darkness from parent to spirit, some deep
wooded exchange, never-minded of subliminal assassination. A man, an icon, died
alone, gripping his chest, with miracles seeming impossible; another lost to shudders,
another icon, she was never avenged; another drank a shot of Hennessey—if
“strong enough to face the madness,” the pain in its helium and sadness. Solar
scars, mental cemeteries, longer ranged baptism—into one gem, pleading as we
perish, if but one terrifying beauty; reeling in sin, celebrating one angel,
forgiving anything from one person. Alike to a dream. Alike to fiction. What is
humanhood aside forgiveness!
