Can’t write it out, some souls, the
threads in a cello, the minds of a piccolo. Needing oxygen, battled inside,
living at the gates—and God knew, when he came, when she smiled; so causeless
we thought, walking away from spirit, and Love would cry one final sound. Like a
whaleshark, the darkness, at that moment—to lose the beauty, to ache the war,
accustomed to humanity’s eyes. Can’t write it out, some souls are excellent,
shadows inside, life in stars, and God knew most the grievances, as to reach
his ears, as to ache at her heart; so low at those tracks, pitching rocks, so
early in the morning. Loud trains, smoke filled pipes, Love sound asleep—the feelings
some might have, at negligence in others, with most considered strange, unruly,
too much exchange for the good times. Orca brained. Petting a leaf. Traveling a
line or two from Langston Hughes. The strength of the servant, shooed and
loved, so many secrets—it kills softly. The price of the Great Mountain, the
Great Departure, to be given the lonely table. And blind in the message, a
garment on her Holiness, a net for lies to sustain. They might see, they might
love, oh the genetic memory—sober sound, straightway to a viola, at the piano
entertaining at a jazzy club … the pain of the Great Tugging. Can’t write it
out, some cruel souls, to have adored where color stands; to have left us with
love, to have colored our eyes, to believe in us!
