We Die Pain & Rise Growth

I saw her floating upon waves: something relic—a woman’s

ransom. I saw heart kneading love—a tavern sign. So chant

to rise—souls merging and fallin’ to Lauryn Hill. It’s ever

a tone and intonation, where Sufi chi becomes a magnet

drum. We perish a tropic sorrow, ever to thirst the deepest

prose. So fall to chaos—compose a storm, gasp and die.

Indeed, resurrect—a Shumann mind, and feel the Ghost; for

art is altered—an Amish foible—so deliberate. We grip a gale

and glide and groan: ever to find peace, alive in our death.

Know she cries a classic tear—the sorest well—the deepest

growth. And ever we love, afar and near, torn and gnawing

upon windmills. I pause—admire beauty, and realize our age

is soaring years. What would I give a teenage month: a

mystic stone—the wealth of Gandhi. In truth, a quest to gain

a moon, and cry a sun—to thresh a soul; and love a taint—a

heart to kneel, a parent’s oath—a world to feel.