Through cotton and crops—side perspective, right
there, a soul must ignore what he sees; running and no one is chasing, the
methodology imprint, the mind churning itself, suspect for far too long.
A spirit inside, a body made flesh, so disgraced, to
prove a mute-point—racing to please abstracts, at tender embrace with metallics,
at harsh impact with weather. The church portico, if to rest inside, feeling it
must be liquor.
Disfavored allegations, the worst of ourselves, and
justified, in trench, in depth, and one major debt.
Carrying shame, forced to believe, as in hating self;
by fierce inculcation, deranged at some point,
made sicker than heart-shine.
Tied to souls, scissored at memories, ignoring first
implication; a wall gunning, pushing at his lungs, smoke filled chimneys; most pantomime,
listening to soundness, with pressure so subtle the sun is unclear.
By fever those times, an interior ventriloquist, and
God came to watch the show.
Never as it would be, only acceptable, barely warm
enough to hear: lost motives, chasing so long, it becomes a vendetta. Rain pouring
in. Regardless. It doesn’t matter if hunches are true. The gate is the dungeon.
