I tried being innocent, like death on a tree, like pain in a dove. I tried aching in disguise, sullen nightmares, unbelievable sin—the man in his mirror, those wings, to have died so early on. In loving a sparrow, in climbing a mountain, in cleaving upon hills, we realize souls are selfish. It was nice, it was creative, it was real; it was naïve, with passion overwhelming, so indebted, enjoying a mere smile. It was native mind prints, with love insufficient, the pain of water; an owl in essence, eating heirs, a screen sprouts silence. Like a stowaway, riding a train, those carts are empty—like corduroy on a sunlit day, skin irritated, voices sullen, the sloth of depression, the evilness of irony. With tyranny in an hourglass, sand dropping, time unexcused, deeper, darker pains. Many have shadows, made irregular, the chair has condemned its mirror; the mind suit if unclear, the jumpsuit is dirty, jogging doesn’t work, returning to self. I tried going against self, acting in place, feeling uncomfortable; like passion displaced, it doesn’t feel correct, it keeps pushing, it irritates. Or dry inside, muggy in there, pacing through fog, swatting smaze. With a banshee if his genealogy, an ancient soul, to hear with ears meant for listening.
