It never becomes mastery, importance, dripping anguish, celebrating happiness.
Faucet pain, sensing its divinity, grace & rain.
Smoldering weather, decomposition spirits, I wonder about father.
I was with epiphany, vacillating, velvet skies—as if passion is affliction.
I prayed as a child; I sweated by pores; I bled my life.
I fathom by needs, affirmative deserts, when desperate, we take action.
It never seems enough, so hungry, so rapacious, the sin is greed.
With deep patience, benthic intolerance, a soul is a contradiction;
Awesome rain, dearly alive, barely situated—
we spoke with demons—we strained angels, we disrespected existence.
In God’s Country, we can’t see it clearly, we feel neat, tucked in, disputing facts.
I never felt mastery, so sullen, so tacit, filled with ghetto anger.
Spigot abuse, a precious seed, to become a monster; most important are tenets, never found it at home, in seeking—he was deceived, in needing warmth—he was mis-lead … the end didn’t justify tragedy.
By afflatus, dear discernment, so numen it aches—
if knowing was enough, if one had warned, I still would’ve moved forward.
Such vivacity—
so near its cave, capitalizing sorrows, hunting bigger truths;
so much to adore, born with flaws, filled with negotiation.
Original means iconoclastic; similar means exhausted;
by a benighted wind, a blackdamp, feeding pigeons at the pond.
