By a wretched hunger I thirst into the havoc with
wings spreading into the fright, and long we lived leaking in spirit the vile
stench in skies, to dissipate and disappear, with little a trace in memory. Like
ghostly folks the island on brains if to sense one was maddened and making
allegations. I would not the indecent strife so concerned with souls believing
my storytelling; a gentle man made uncertain the feast is in eyes carried into
miracles. I just read an endearing childhood story; a mother laughing so hard at
the child’s joke, in which, he can’t remember, the mother wet herself. The
quilt, blanket, of such, was stained and washed so abrasively, it lost its
threadcount. Sheer radiant beauty; mother running up the hallway, headed to the
restroom, laughing heartedly—the praise of spirit, gut born pleasure, the kind
one has no control over: it’s been some time sense most have had such miracle
and phantom. I try to reminisce on pleasure born of innocence, those deeper
moments, the beach and saltywater, the kelp at our ankles, the sand made into
mud and the sandcastles some lad and family were stirring up; most delicate
memory, to cherish the message, if sunshine would gaze into us.
