It
creeps within—a taste of anger, for pacing ensues.
He’s
partly parched, athirst for freedom, deeply scarred.
Something
cries purple, a starry sky, to flip through
pages;
where a woman screams, to touch for anger, sighted
sorely.
He wails, “Assyria,” slightly captive, breeding
Pit Bulls. They live within, to tear a heart, plaguing divinity.
She
utters voice, to probe a soul, saturated with purpose.
He
claws for light, escaping self, pulled into a chamber.
What
of rights, a sullen peace, if un-agitated? It’s a
vacuum,
a false sense, mourning self. He yearns more, to
seek
a past, dripping lagoons. “It’s a monster,” ever alive,
soothed
through conflict. He falls a surface, to utter
prayer,
swatting at demons. It’s every thought, a vault of
cries,
sighing harshly. She states a sore, moved for sword,
tugging
upon ropes. He rises slain, to vent a death, scribing
memoirs.
She pushes further. It never ends, for years breed
fates.
So many scars, to jar a mind, pacing through rugs.
