I felt idle, facing memoirs, abashed
on some level. I heard her pleading,
planting seeds, sincerity is of
question. If it matters anymore,
roses as mockery, funerals made
symbolic, treasured, once terrified. Life,
her rules, her fame, fortune, memories, dreams.
I would ask if it meant clarity. Souls
facing memoirs. Souls rewriting vignettes.
If getting closer meant existence. If
longing meant fulfillment. Soil, moist vines, grapes,
laughing wines. Tapestry in curtains, each
pleat with spirits, unlocked memories,
many of which, unknown to its soul. I’ve
desired something askew, private
battles, faced by morality, sensing
it was delusion in its scar. To
listen to a foolish man, dreamt in
fiction, so much raw reality,
recess is unrelatable. I’ll drift
gently, repainting walls, creating
religious murals. In ache, in
transition, alienated from
passions, rejoicing in a sad mystic.
