It’ll be death of its lexicon, guts unto glory, depicted as a heathen;
sheer internalization, exaggerated prose, dramatized dying;
too many croaked, so early on, like an amateur king—an adolescent at the thrown ….
I was born to die, a fact in its beauty, to imagine eternity here on earth, raw desperation!
I was feeling sadness, lost at an edge, pushed inside, battle scars!
Always needed the sickness, reaching into childhood, I remember a rich ability—
to sing acapella, to write a message, to reframe scripture—committing blasphemy, of course, unknowingly, falling into darkened skies—so assailed in there, defeating self in there, wrong thoughts!
All day cogitation, to sudden upon a volt, simultaneous with cognition—a deeper language,
an esoteric island, to swear—it’s not dear enough.
Let it be written, fire spoke, a man died, to become immortal.
Darker rooms, illumination guides, sudden into an afflatus—to discern justice.
We loved it, deeper ignorance, free from sullen mortality.
We delved into it, lived it like ambition, to argue over something aching, killing us, to smile, laugh, like pain needed a little culture.
All day with you, enduring silence, forbidden from ignition;
an interior menace, an overt compliance, anger, darkness was so appealing.
By the juice you drink. By the rage you feel. By the battles in fields, sitting aloneness, to awaken in screams.
