I find it in a banshee. I seek her freedom. We wore
ghosts. All day fried.
Trying a sky bird, giggling with flame, dressed in
anarchy. If to live, if to love, such baggage, at tombs lately.
It must know balance. Souls in angst. Begging mists.
By a dream, wounded rain, hushing coals. Loving
Christ, a thin thread.
American sunrise. Fluid nightmares. Anxiety culture.
Gossamer wounds.
We ate smaze, glazed in armor, at feats, driven to bleed.
I would love blindly, fumes in homes, walls bleeding
identity. I adored her, I was sick inside, it felt normal. Harrowing through
rain, distinguished as breath, precocious and wild. Where was he—it never
mattered, like cruel on beliefs. We watched nannies guzzling, running dreams,
felt in balance, waiting to die. I hit fields, ate pomegranates, plucking
feathers: bird cages, seed, a flower in asphalt. It was heinous, dog fights, to
see an animal behave with violence. Never new for horizon, masked unknowingly,
most too defaced to bounce back. To see a 10-year-old babbling, looking for
father, begging scripture. Shadows we heard, it sounded radical, most mumbled,
felt hurt, headed towards deserts. Filled with feelings, odd at times,
dysfunction felt so natural. He was 15 with a child. She was 16 with an
addiction. Life was miserable. I kept with a hope, broken and losing, so
incumbent upon the first born.
