Color has soul, a lot of dying, so connected by heritage.
A city of hearts, hauling residues, trying to embrace history.
It was lonely—in finding self, to realize: I’m part sad.
Ain’t no love—we assert, there must be love.
Blues and big buildings, souls stranded, some forgotten, looking at large eyes; knowing another understood, readily: on borrowed time—rays, kilometers, such a foolish man, rarely seizing where I haven’t sewn—harvest jazz, inner city rhythms, casual greetings.
I was told something: “Cry it out.”
The lonely ones—misunderstood, sailing concrete battles; roses and petals, to have seduced, realizing life in subtleties, a gentle nudge, tomorrow hurts.
The first giggle, the last language:
heart ears, spirit eyes, morning is filled with you: silence speaks.
Hours to ontology; waiting becomes appeased; tossing through awakenings; pondering duty.
So darkened, can’t follow through, something is tugging, deep in brains, preventing action.
And
Love knows nothing, a sudden gaze, a moment, in absence to see charms.
Nobody fooling the Light;
No one revamping attraction.
Souls palming oil, trying to grip it tightly. Life becomes seduction.
