Strip sensationalism;
make it raw deliverance; made too heavy to breathe.
Nothing said remains private.
Generational animosity becomes gossip. We select what we
believe.
I knitted skies.
I see certain words keep an appearance.
I walked into her voice.
Mythic fires, still reality, aching like it’s
manageable.
Tools usually come with the utility, if not, we ask
for our tools.
They fooled a few, many of us predicted the next saga:
“I have it figured out.” I have come close, never figured it out
though.
The roads
are sulfur—blue science whistles, I walked to the sun;
a
little this way, a staunch believer, behaving, enduring, not many knew the
pathological:
most adore the one listening, like one can’t see paint;
feeling eerie, chills, vibrations, still at cascades.
Can’t say it, I had one silence, still moving into
clouds.
Answered in the order I was received.
At truths
inside. Chasing Mirrors. Given intuition.
