It’s never enough. To feel implacable.
It’s complaisant at its gallica.
Trying an edge; leaning into hedges. To battle instincts, share woes, pining
aside distance.
Evermore by love; shunning
nightmares—crocheting parts,
aloft a spell, it’s not rosy, it drills by
ingress.
Sanctified spirits;
the music is suffering. It’s a tired
road.
Sweat & rashes; nerves & guts; ironic laughs.
If it would never its weather, why call
for a storm?
Selfish surrendering, slanted horizons,
calligraphy on the first page.
All day. Pure redundancy. To have a
feeling at expectancy, those sylvans
are irrelevant.
Knowing wellness, it looks different
than this;
knowing barriers, they look
similar to this;
raw flesh, skin beneath nails,
souls at doorjambs,
streetcars, absence, another dam.
It’s never enough. At best, spirits
are appeased.
