The violin echoes in power—the piano
of the microphone—the chiseling and danger; to desire passion, uncertain of
elements, to need to live. A house filled with prayer, a dungeon so close to
heart, an arc in a story the way it travels. The beauty of the monster, the
poetry of the villain, the need to prove some point; a DJ with wings, two kids
with fire, wondering if “The grief will let [one] go.” So much to become
classified, so little to give back, if only to return to nonchalance; a soul in
a bottle, a woman in arts, fleeing and flying and damn near exhausted: too much
to die in her, too much to live in her, not enough space to ever forget her; a
soul with wings, a damaged umbrella, so many palms of centipedes—to cry a
woman’s tear, to have simultaneous fears, with power bleeding identity. In
seeing where it wouldn’t go, a spirit fell asunder, with trillions aching The
King[s] of Sorrow.
