If I might cross those flowers, those old demons, such peaceful pain. So unrelenting—such hostile skies—to the one
we love. Like hocus pocus, like tequila odor, like adoring what wasn’t prepared for passion. Let God bless the forsook, the
captured—let God arise on behalf of the orphan. When said, when unquestioned, to respect it was life, a great deal of dying.
Those fringes, matted scalps, wars, no time for hygiene. So biblic, so critical, respected repentance. Rich in nightness, benighted
winds, legacy arts, sacrificial elegance. Into blackdamp, lungs heavy in praise, affixed to raw hopes. And living was crucial, a
crucified understanding, faiths grew wings. If I might cross the flowers, to inhale the scents, to pause, sit and stare. If I might pet
a pet-peeve, exhaust anxiety, or make passions at a wonder; afflicted bones, inflictive marrow, marred, scarred, trekking
through mire. Roses bleeding ink; portraits screaming seduction; devastation semi mixed. Those years, those emphatic cares,
such ruthless therapies. A man made rabid; a soul to his estate; in daring to unfurl skies—marching into aborted times.
