I haven’t an excuse, nor a pledge, just battles and
mirrors, sludge and rivers—over waterfalls, a neat metaphor, a soul would celebrate
connectivity. If to reach a spirit, what greater touching—than communion; to
awaken a soul to life, through life, to remind of principle and order and
accountability.
Boots to marsh, a trope in cities, dry as a bone,
filled to capacity, emoting affectation. I haven’t an excuse, maybe a pledge,
over soups and rice, bowels and duty. I was tugged. I was a vacuum. I was sunk
low, through what I love, no greater death than that. Alike to a mansion, a
depth room, offering solace, until—it consumes; falling and rising, consistency
deceased, no greater churn than iron of spirit; a man with fever, a decent
auto-soul, torn until submission; alike to a deeper recognition, an interior sanctum,
to genuinely turn towards repentance — and answered.
