We
look forward, somehow spinning in circles, accustomed
to
something contrary. But we adjust, ever to commune,
wrestling
with fevers. We watch self become, something
enormous,
gravitating towards likeness. It echoes softly,
elevating
consciousness, where one wars a childhood. How
do
we live there, wrapped in bruises, screaming for a higher
self?
I welcome life, attempting for clarity, tiptoeing a
future.
People live, ever alert, harboring a deep scar; but we
look
forward to light, nibbling fruits, enlove with ventilation.
I
see you near a myrtle tree, feltly exhausted, grappling with
conceptions.
I offer a cigar, to witness a smile, wiping away
gunpowder.
So much shrapnel, bullets logged in oak, where
one
gazes off in innocence. We’re left with ashes, unburned
hopes,
a sea of wishful notes; only to persevere, harness
magic,
staring into mystic eyes. I relish such nightmare,
where
truth rages forth, nestled with faith, cuddled with love.
