He never knew wrongness, mainly survival, mother
screaming at him. He’d hit traffic floating, gazing at turquoise skies, puffing
a cigarette. Life was changing, souls were called, the Ghost was powerful. An inner
séance, a mental renaissance, a cage he carried. A neat love, a failed
encounter, a bubbling storm. It looks better this way, wrestling with sobriety,
partial to redemption. To feel good inside, to feel relaxed, a little anxious
at times. Loved her, asked her, she was adamant. Life moves in circles. It
comes to meet itself. No amount of running, the mirror’s the same, something
inside is watching.
He sung choir. He was baptized. He knew the congregation.
Turning left, angry as boxers, tapping into lights. He couldn’t tell it—those he
could see—a few intimate secrets—a cautious design. He knew visions, seeing
foreign faces, writing it down for evaluation—until …
