Scented
oils, my soul; to alert a demon, a knife for souls.
I
passed you, to wail a cry, semi-knotted—for tears. I
felt
jasper-blue, to possess a wind, needled with shame.
I’m
grounded for night, a knowledge sore, a family kef.
I
passed you, a perfect shield, to pause with drums. You
spoke
a language, ever in silence, a leaf reattached. I
lifted
spirit, a mutual art, to model for comfort. You
felt
December, a coming rain, ever to make contact. We
sailed
a temple, filled with gray—to have never met.
Our
light is liquid, to intensify feelings, aware of death.
You
cried—for a badge, to dwell with dust, filthy with
shame;
but nothing done, a flog of self, a lash for self.
I’m
born—to wail bars, to thirst blood, to birth freedoms;
and
there to perish, an endless mile, filled with auras.
You
give—a mystic breath, to sculpt a cactus, ever
through
winds. I channel heart, to gain for strength, a
debt
unpaid; plus, a church, denim blue, to raise a flame.
