Say it hurts, die a smidgen, never tell me its over. The
fire of the planet, swishing through freeways, a man cursed, livid in a surprise,
on slow roast. In earnest to have flight, into terrors, to sit, enduring the
critical. Some fool in her eyes, if to imagine truths, so silent the debt—the depth,
so uncured, so distant, trying harder to exist; all I need, was all that was
given, some dream in a ribbon, so alienated, estranged from others, looking
anti-normality, the odd creature, the fury of the battle, a war to prove him
wrong.
As it hit, metallic fireworks, to ignore his brains;
so silent excellence, befalling his crown, threshed, sacrificed, given to
language. A soul and his dreams—a woman and her ideals, an iconoclast and his
reasoning.
It never mattered, right or wrong, she would pursue—a fount
in a cave, palatial sunrise, an epiphany, or damnation.
