Nothing but faith
the garden spoiled, wherefore, someone didn’t listen. Flesh mistakes, casual liaisons,
a little satisfaction the soul churns with wilder science, wolves and hyenas
deeper on spirits. Many concerns to be so naïve, so young, those years, seated
beneath a crooked umbrella; father forsook the helm, mother repainted the ship,
others pledged devotion, only for profit. To touch the hem of energy, to open
skies with a voice falling to earth—most illustrious pains, art for nirvana,
to experience the koan; major feelings, the kind they ache, suppress, born
seeking the Dear Passion; so fulfilled, this is rumored, with yearning still at
motivation. Fighting to disprove a soul, fighting to prove selfsame soul, pulled
asunder for indiscretion the mountain as it grieves, smoke filled clouds,
tablets and aggravation. Many on liquor, more on pills, I couldn’t understand
the magic—at a fever inside, moving the lakes of yore, fraught by antiquity, many
asking about sequences, a flame for mother, a fire for sister, adjustments for
the author.
