Looking to see us, regathered pieces, dreary dreams—a better calligraphy. Many became a mystery, losing senses, leaking sanity. I would visit, feeding pigeons, chasing ghosts—life is misunderstood. Trying to tame madness, familiar mad eyes, a glossary of what ifs. And ridiculed, a fifty-year grudge, to repent might seem shallow—not many need each other—passing time. To ask in passing about needs, wondering what means excellence, spirits in blenders—one grand award!
I did it for anguish, newly baptized, sensing tragic color; life has pigmentation. (How often we forget kindness.)
And Love is precious, came around last week, looking for a family: if I could dismantle perceptions, or dispel notions, the world is full of coyotes.
When anxious, listening to parts, asking for a bridle.
A different version of a similar person: souls need to fathom desperation of character.
To forsake a soul—to pontificate—another wonders—so many dice, so many shrimps, lunch with Moet; doing it for ancestors, do it for children, doing it for silence.
