Even when summer is good, pain lingers; swimming in
lakes—of anxiety, rites, cultures and creeds—to have died before and
again. Love is most remarkable—at
diamond shaped resistance, at terrors, scars, trying to bury a few. Nothing like winter love, passion splayed
and inviting. I would climb a galaxy,
roving cosmic drawers, fraught by guilt, despite, anger, flippant to winds,
private thoughts are humbling. Entering
is accidental; forced to participate, giant repercussions, made more adroit
with time; tender emotion, sitting in soul, made an instrument of charms; if
living is what we see, what we see isn’t living, with time to pause at a
mirror. For readers, words are
combinations—to freedoms, laws, rejuvenation. For writers, words are suffering, lacking
meaning, in need of reach, to break barriers.
