The keyboard is a scar—trying as we do—indeed, essence
boiling reluctant to ooze out; ripples through skies, boundless vision, to
need, to seduce anodyne.
The tempo is announcing life.
Mental jiu jitsu, if to survive, attempting as we do.
Teardrops upon soil, trees grow, each seed is a legacy—
sweet slumber.
Religious eyes, soulful guts, rubescent lips. Either live
or perish.
A spirit of rivulets, banshee woods, solar ether,
collars and suits.
To need something unknown to its needer.
Shapeless beliefs, angel reefs, most will desire you—some
mystical caption, physicality in vogue, to endorse you, many will stick like
valves.
An upsurge of upheaval and dynamite expression, to
become living religiosity.
Too much to see those brows, forming discontent, mad,
elated, shuffling, laughing with tears; those years, falling from gravity,
rising in grace.
By angst.
