I never knew it
would end.
Trying to fathom
old works.
Too simplistic.
A cave near its
grave.
AM hours, daylight
follows, an angelic reason.
To cleave to a
problem.
To ache a machine.
With slanging
bibles.
Religion on trial,
mother remembered, a soul moving through injuries.
One would say —
“Partner is too this, too that,” with reality screaming at scandalous souls.
I was with music,
I was livid, a lasting diary, an edifice built on rubber, flung back at itself,
remembering the affront.
Never forgetting,
wondering truly, one would latch on to something hurtful.
I’m reading again,
trying to understand again, remaining parts of darkness.
More to life,
aggressive to sin, if pain is God’s entrance.
Rebates on fibs.
Angst in jars. A soul sips moonshine.
Time becomes a
factor.
Drama becomes
integral.
Adoring becomes a
private legacy.
A reel spinning,
same picture, if altered, would the sun shine?
I never knew it
would end—looking at puffy eyes, bronzed skin, thick, luscious mane; death
would swallow her, time would cease to exist, each day would be a year, a year
as if a day. Those silvery palms, burning heat, purgatorial charms
—an elevator
downstairs, a furnace in a basement, one soul infuses the séance.
It takes so few,
hands and bodies, pristine hopes, pure unevenness.
