Trying at mystique. Looking at eyes. The roads are
longer. The years grow fewer. Departure is in horizon. It will be there,
mocking, holding soul in derision. The iniquity. The Ghost. Like happiness can’t
be purchased. I was fueled, sold into it, it kept laughing. A bird in distance.
A lagoon inside. A mental platypus. A broken petal. And mother knew. Lived her
life. Enough of that!
Trying at numen. It keeps giggling.
Trying at innocence. It wails louder.
Trying at purity. It kicks mud.
Some of us have a different experience. Many love and
remain loved and read like silence means beautiful dreams.
I never ran the show. A product of the sullen. Souls latched
to familiarity.
Trying to get further. Trying to feel normal. Something
in cards. A bullshit cliché.
