Most addicted to utopia,
passion of dice, gothic, made wicked,
nonchalance. Banshee interior,
darkness of prose, a little unsteady,
nervous, peering back at mirrors
—until it shifts. Most terrified, knowing
fey, unharnessed, leaping, thrusting a
linchpin. Mental revelation, into
spiritual portals, a soul has unveiled
a name. Seated upon cotton, a
hassock, palming a graven image, in
soul, spirit, dynasties have suffered.
Bathed in waters, made holy, unable
to feel it as it falls. Piercing
invisibility, filled with
intrusion, adoring, if possible,
some light in one made miserable—by
fire of suffering, the glory in
redemption, a cycle unending
—walking through hemispheres. Overshadowed.
Put back together. Reframed—
fiending for Love. Ignored. Walking away.
To hear it in spirit, clawing at walls,
groping at invisibility.
Sheer terrible. Meer tragic. Unreal
reality.
Unable to drop a tear. It’s become
maddening.
To have a piece of divinity,
knowing skies are fuller, to drift,
tugged, caressing a handkerchief.
