I need a remedy. Life is fraught by rain. The winds
are wheezing. Kids die. I sense I’m losing. I know for some winning. The blues
blaze in King. Not many will find her. Not many will know life. With patterns
terrifying the watchtowers. Humans are made of science, religion, unidentifiable
sequences. I was at the gates, gripping roots, tragic in cotton, looking at
cornfields; I was released to mother, a woman in miseries, father did charm,
did filth, left one addicted, kept moving, never looked back. Many know the
patterns. Many hold it secret. Like the hell they can’t fathom! I relax a
muscle, tense interior, laughing—it hurts so good! It became normal. The
fretted life. Winds wheezing, father’s a bishop, mother’s a nun. How hath it
happened! Hanging on, wrestling the deep ocean, released from father, given
back to God.
I need a remedy. Death is alive with wings. The fires
are internal.
Harder to ingest it—the farmers are running madness,
sanity hath become crooked: a dear problem, just abandoned to self-majesty, too
gorgeous to whiff or swallow.
So askew. Too much drifting. Like ten years into
death,
and they’ll resurrect my prose. And they’d no need for
envy.
