Similar
to lies, or unvisited, solemn though the same. Should be excellence, gladness,
as opposed to heavy malaise. Taking hands to a plough, honored to look forward,
stumbling at moments. Like to exile, banned from one’s kingdom, expecting a
savior, a messiah of sorts.
The language
is masterful, once spoken, its reality is challenging
puddles of pain, pushing through
snow, fighting to breathe freely
some chamber inside, debating on its
own, taking inventory
and parched.
Neither dead
nor unborn, just mere existence.
Taking to
plants, deeper releases, leaves nodding.
Suffering intelligence,
frostbitten at times
high-fiving a
mirage.
Social
fiber, aligned with popular thought, finding it suspicious.
Listening
to silence—time tamed, disputing the changing tides.
