By flickering sunshine, a sweet tooth, framed in fire, to have adored like living is good. Too much to assert it, on a bad day, to see spirits, and I swore I heard her voice.
I would kiss a forehead, lay an angel to rest, the crib was with a few items.
He pointed to a poetic gem—a rose in a crevice, surrounded by asphalt—this is Blackness, color, pain, beauty of science, reasons to war.
I wonder about it, tropical gorgeous, to hear parakeets, to palm a harmless, colorful spider. I wonder what painless feels like, no remnant, no recourse to it—just pure peace, if but a moment, no recollection of sorrows. It was like that. It was early on. Memories are void of pictures, void of sensations, enjoying life. It could be heaven, an earlier age, but speculation is metaphysical. We deal with here, now, as children, running through hallways, laughing, eating breakfast, looking at parents.
There is a chase taking form—each poet racing, composing, tentacles & blades of grass; if to succeed, if to become the best, so high an ideal, so unreal, & we chase. Becoming creatures of wars, nothing negative, just seeing differently—a good piece—& they question our sanity.
I like to read your work. I could barely smile, barely laugh, just in trance. I couldn’t lie. I saw rain. I saw humor. They competed with each other.
Don’t fret! I’m chasing. I haven’t given up.
