The flame is the fire. Surly. It still stands. Death
in a glass. Resurrection in hope. Sugar was tasty. A magnificent gem. More to
doing right. To be fierce. To sense a Ghost. If living would grant perfection.
The life of the soul—the gift of Spirit, to love like tomorrow wasn’t coming. So
innocent! Such absent pain. To grow into a thinking vessel. Teardrops.
Coldness. Such warmth for a person. Such inoperable evidence. Showing by
presence. Noted in self. The legacy of the marrow. Blame is now irrelevant. Days become
mundane. Asking seems an imposition. It hast to change. It hast to be on par.
It hast to release itself. Those dark and dreary realities. Those beautiful
seconds, despite the dear beasts. I was young on a cross. I was belittled in a
dream. Many deride and chide if to scream. I laugh at times. Others look. They
wonder what seems so funny. They look into themselves. No harm meant. Just
asking if it hurts. Could I still smile?
