I hope it fills a space; and dancing is
forbidden. Mystery lingers. I was super low, hands to invisibility, molding
plateaus. Tell me it has an end. Tell me it gives you life. Tell me my rights
don’t matter. Justify reality, then say you stand for sameness—of heritage, of
treatment, of graces and honor. Tell me it gives you life, and you refuse to
walk away. Days were mundane. The next
will charm you. Life is meant to entertain you. I run a risk. I remember soul, elegance,
confusion, and paining art; never darker, dull light, radiance in skies—travel and
legacy, Judah and Levy. I need to say
it matters less in passing, whereof, I’d be fibbing. I need to say I understand
on some level, whereof, this is superficial. Tell me it matters—those dreams, tell me
they culminate—into sanity, miracle, and vice, with meaning mesmerized and
dancing; so bad for essence, so wicked when angry, I imagine many duplexes.
