She chances with a chant—a million miles away—making hearts into summer. I was ripe in my nonchalance, expecting a daughter, through mire, excellent addiction. Poetry wanes, words rarely devastate, if so, they wither like petals. In each reign, her eyes glow, surreal and powerful presence. Dresses flowing, blouses flowery, stars standing at attention. It meant receiving criticism, a critical pen, with Love smiling and laughing and acting gayly. With everything in you, with life hurting, with pain sitting in stillness. I was sickened, crocheting skies, trying to fathom God. My life given to it, theology in veins, every art becoming anti-philosophic. Take Jesus to ark, take life to grain, tell me it ceases to ache. She seems together, drowning in perfection, each word flowing in glitter. It was hell at the mic, the crowd was indelicate, you looked, I saw a tear, such love for genuine empathy. Such an empath, lately I’ve been close, with the Ghost giggling. It seems in there, spirits at themselves, eating and sipping grapes. You are she. Danger in adoring, the heart ruined, wraiths at the illusions. I will deny you, as you have denied me, it seems harsh, but an ear for an ear, an eye for an eye, a limb for those soaring through heavens. It seems otiose, without meaning, looking at what dies. So close to winning, so near, up against every ambition, hoping through a storm.
