I as if detached, pass over truths,
despite, focus of the compass. She dines on science, restructures held maxims,
outdoes most in her profession. A runner for the underdog, disenchanted with
some, some reason aching her personality. Planted weeds and tulips and then
daffodils; ate fruits and dates, if but a parachute—I couldn’t see. A soul in
measure. A graph for charts. A language most men aren’t able to decode: body
motion, straightforward, at times, too much for deliberation; an animal
proudly, separated as Aristotle, reason and rationality, emotion and feelings,
logic and essence. I as if detached, saw what couldn’t be fully what it seems, too
many parts, dangling on high, too great to worship, too religious to overlook,
with a past lurking in its shadows. Angered. Upset. Filled with retrospection.
An issue. A problem. Never realized until it was vivid. (But) this wasn’t
enough. I wasn’t talking about it. Fair enough. (But) I was taught to keep
silence. Poetry is a different animal. I can say anything to a stranger in
reading what passes into a riddle. Upfront, close to soul, giving to one I can’t
feel familiar with, for I convoluted an initial beginning … I don’t see it
would be greater … trust isn’t afforded … it’s a revelation to take into
consideration.
The
sun is an eye. The moon is a body. We consume the sun … we consume the moon. I
see purple in some foreign sky … I see souls taking to mercy … I see others
destroying futuristic possibilities … and I see me agitated by something that
should rest by now. It’s not about curiosity, and what might be, or filling a
void, made self-serving, with pain widespread throughout regions. Spite only
runs so long, justified so in passing, before a person plainly states: It has run
its course … if aware of the esoteria and the intrusion. This is the pain of
history—the stigmata, surrounding cultures—the fact that humans can’t let go,
nor forgive at points, filled with doubletalk.
I
need leave it to chance, to surrender to illusion, to suspect something bigger
than irk is taking place. What is in a persona’s life? Is it filled with trials?
Is it easier to concentrate on a phantom, a mistake, a chance encounter?
Essentially, is it easier to project, to hate a stranger, as opposed to dealing
with homelife?
Violet
omegas, gambling souls, to have come to a space with entanglements; greater
deceit, greater loses, to have invested in a life found disappointing.
Taupe
eyes, russet pastures, autumn rain—to pet an auburn leaf, to kiss a poodle, to
have harmony in cupping a rose. Winds wild the wiles of nature—accursed for meeting,
hurting for trying, made impervious for said hurt.
So
great a flame, to need feedback, to need to know it’s painful.
It
has a song to it, a cadence in undulates, a raindrop upon a horse’s snout.
It
would never happen: I just imagine this story told to a group of family members
and friends, celebrating some anniversary.
The
irony of it, of Yahweh, of fate.
To
imagine us faithful, able to move forward, I don’t dream like that.
Last
to see, first to suspicion, realizing, nothing can be final.
