It was a beginning, ignorance sinning, lots of laughs & grinning. It was immaturity.
Spectacular endeavors. Caged wishes. Caves fraught by artifacts. We learn to soar. We learn to sing. We learn to feel miserable, by trade, not by choice.
I could if time permitted. We’ll grow older, some with grandchildren, we’ll die holding to orison. Tales told, feelings blight, too much wisdom to fret. As phrenic creatures, looking at brightness, seeing its darkness. One furious river.
It wasn’t supposed to go this way. Poetry has a mind of its own. It turns corners, to bleats, ignorant of fate, days & nights made a blur.
Something is mourning, battles inside, to have become everything one loathes. That terrible second, in passing a mirror, such a tragic witness.
They call it turned out.
Let all souls exclaim: I have meaning.
It’s easy to become resentful. If it brings life, it will be exhausted—
Those dreams hebetated … millions on a Rose … painted by traumas.
When it rains, when in gores, through pain a man lived … through misery, a book was written. Those implications, imprints, to have adored pure affliction, it becomes mythical.
To harass until one flips out, the grit of dawn, morning of its star. Never reaching happiness.
A cursed man is an awakened soul. The girt of insanity, the pith of lunacy, as sane as William James.
But a name uttered, is an appeal made, we become skeptical.
Skies fill with hopes. Days warring the same damn wall.
Like it never lets up. Like it has an agenda. Like it needs the filth of its palms.
Caught in his sin, wedged afar, product of his nature, blessed for suffering. Fire of the castle, drained in aches, to laugh out lunacy.
