It
angers for soul, to be pulled for slums, where lights are
dim.
What is it, to groom pastel feelings, ever to walk
away?
Is it chills, a sullen thrill, to mold for skills. Is it
love,
a strange rebuke, to puke upon suede boots. It’s a
crash
course, ever to torch feed, a cosmic clash. We want
for
less, where feelings crept, to gnaw for crayons. I
oppose
it, to scorn it, even to love it. It’s such a pull,
selfish
in content, and semi-confused. Songs are dark, for
night
to sing, kicking at shores. I mourn it less, where dust
evolves,
an image in pearl pains. Such grain for light, as
dim
as winter, an Oakland fog. Was it silver, ever to morph,
a
gilted sword. I fall to ask, veiled for charms, to listen for
rings.
The city’s broken, glass is shattered, and we want
for
bedlam. I pick a suture, to see a face, wounded through
love.
I hear a song, to summons hell, where love once grew.
I’m
done, a wishless vein, surrounded by grains; but what
to
give, a wounded silence, fighting for caves? We offer
space, even cosmic
prayer, tiptoeing spikes and thorns. Inspired by ballet.
