It couldn’t be simple—those California cries, the rain
dropping, the tilled soil; and adoring you is mythical, the blood shed the arts
blazing the memories. Missing links. Rightness and wrongness—debates are
running fires. To need you is a far cry. To want is near home. To live without
you seems probable. Until time ends, something repeats a name, each day like a
carnal connection; more anxiety, sitting in a park, asking what comes before
collapse? It never quits, the mind is a clock, deplorable at moments,
reproachable at seconds—the smile of its grave, as it ends, a cycle continuing
into evolution. We’ve seen legends. We have excursions. With days eclipsed by
faith arts. If to come to you, to deliver my soul, walking away hurt more than
lusting for diamonds. And Love was noticed, by measure the caliber, disgraced,
fever bent, life becomes logic.
