Thursday, November 10, 2022

So Unlikely, A Soul Ponders It

 

 

This strange war, made casual

dolphins’ soaring

old ashes to life, most speak faith

and picture as grapes.

 

I fell by a wraith—unstudied—measured by necessity.

 

Some strange alpha, a

crude union, bred

by tension, made of

debate if

when we call it love.

 

Inside a pouch, a kangaroo and fields, boxing

for matrimony, so

much voiceless atmosphere.

 

Art is filled with birds, taupe-brown mistakes, so cold, forced into perception.

 

Sickness and desire, to have met teal skies, turquoise pink, labelling, and pursuing, dying with strife.

 

Many phantom delusions.

 

It shouldn’t be reality.

 

So close we walked away,

we came back,

 

there

is music resounding,

crocodiles wresting, one reason to feel endearing.

 

Too recluse, in a huge country, so absolute, too wicked, to make a connection.

Strumming a Harp

By language we speak to audibility and coherence. To compose to feel understood, in spite of language applied. A person spends years misunde...