Never understood it,
croaking to make rightness, it requires participants: counseling, therapy, raw,
frantic truths.
By reviews to soar,
grandpa wisdom, grandmother’s grace—godfather-clocks; serenading ghosts, stuck
in a trance, electric, like an air-phantom.
Upon impact, hungry for
the message, Love was more than time realized; proffering a notion, plucking
gallicas, racing to slowdown.
You might see it. You
might be it.
Back to souls, fleeing my
mirror, brave enough to pardon the act; meant it for a purpose, meant it for
goodness, lowly, framed in emotion, aching and laughing like Spirit moved.
To wander at moments,
holy animals, a deeper secret to it—getting it to a level, trying to become a
replica, if but to study steepness.
It seems specious, to
utter it so swiftly, a dear note about love; upon a taboo topic, anguished
behind it, to keep a missive at heart.
To ponder upon a
portrait, pictorial pains, so picturesque; by raw essence, by dangerous drums,
with memories crisscrossing.
