We wear wigs, like ancient souls, trekking deserts and
wetlands. One will focus on behaviors, another on excitements, and so forth.
Eating my thunderstorm, drinking my lightening, and so forth. The plague is its
curse, in living with an inner magician, so close to not caring; a lie, it’s in
nature to worry, and this is carrying. A festoon at the river, a cult in heart,
many things yet to be uttered. To outsoar you, to laugh with you, to live out
my wilderness with you; and granny died, and mother passed, and who comes next?
Dust to dust, bone to bone, no more flesh. A daughter with mistakes ahead, a
problem with terrors ahead, a lagoon with a filthy ass platypus ahead. It seems
what it is, and it seems what it isn’t, and most can’t know until one acts out
of character—the riot of the trumpet, the boss of the palace, so smelted,
flitting as we do; teary-eyed, it’s just my turn, God bless the next in line;
much dolor, I hold it well, while Love is nosy, to ask a question, I wave a
hand, and crumble a little. The crucible is dusky, the palace is in
corrections, the gloss tells its story. Dreaded to arrive, craved to come, like
music in the forest. Returned to dirt, spirit made filthy, spreading wings,
floating on high, lavished to return.
