I can’t find self—that cheerful
child—the one believing at core—it’s goodness; and Light is twofold, the girth
the dearth—of what talks to you, rolling into the twilight. Take it to a trance
level, mentioned in those letters, while thoughts were fabricated—the life of
those sprinting, by war on self, to become a good person; and missing Love, the
first one, it becomes dirt and tigerstone and dragons. I can’t find self—that cheerful
child—the one believing in core goodness. I walked the wire, I heard politics, I
noticed partner was silent—the conversation on his line, look at how it chases
us. So allotted the gamble, at an instinct, so pigeonholed; to give back silence,
to become aware, to become the first — “His word is good!” Choking on telegrams,
looking for one blimp, while desperate to be life. We exaggerate, been there,
selling my soul; no mind support, we keep eating chicken, so fried, so alive,
like a deadman.
