He was an ostrich, buried in earth, dreaming of
freedom;
scars for adults, music deliriously, soft, caramel
eyes; &
Love was a wailing, despised by mirrors, so lovely, so
uncrooked, what makes a straight line?
Made uncorrupted, noisy weather, accustomed to
stronger struggles.
He rushed at life, fuchsia woes, addicted to unclarity—wealth
of whale oil.
To adore sunlight, mental outbursts, outstanding features;
to adore like existence, negotiating with kef, left to wishes & fawning,
like zero is condition.
He was an ostrich, deep into sands, a world kept grooving.
To bleed a reservoir, to come from drastic calmness,
so traumatic, a lone wolf in his grins.
So uncanny—such a delicate blessing, to know energy
with intimacy—to have life, to die in resurrection, as proving contradiction is
living.
Filled with promise, staring at races, curdling,
upchucking ghosts, much an ambition to achieve.
Away & longing, in a cave & abated, like cubs
unknowingly.
Many would plot, many would suffer, at hands of
distorted faces.
As soon as daylight, to awaken, like kept in clothe.
A thousand dreams, to come to an image, over a
thousand days.
