I can’t look left nor right, down only up—an ethicist
in some respect. Each tenet might suffocate. Life becomes a bad ass moment. If to
see one’s excellence, it’s in negation. To deny self in denying legacy so many
children shot to the left. Not to mention alphabetical trials, into
tribulations, wanting Love like racing, like acrobatics, to have entered her gymnasium.
(But) the world I see isn’t but illusion; the world I see is strict, harsh,
habitual, so cold, so warm, to awaken—looking into her; a madman, a cooking
man, a wine and bread man, essentially, a Eucharist man.
The sun would settle, the moon would appear, close to
tears, like it never happened again, so many lies, so secure, Love fed
delusions, and I partook with a ravishing appetite.
I can’t look left nor right without guilt. I look down
but it churns. So I look up—filled with hope.
Life is caricature, cartoons, meditation and religion.
We call it tradition, aloof from titles, pulling at innocence. (But) Love was
dynasty, feathers on wings, too much history to actuate adoration in chains.
