We
shift for sullen, a trophy scar, to peer into a mood. I
can’t
change it, to witness it daily, a form through self.
I’m
there, an absent force, filled with welts. It was never
this
course, and ever this voice, staring at hypocrisy.
We
cause trauma, to wail, “Not me,” gripping on a rag of
tears.
If it causes pain, we must regroup, else we stand
accused.
I see for purple, where blood is dripping, a wound
oozing
fevers. I feel for love, a broken heart, screaming,
“Stand
by me.”
We
relish hurt, to seek for war, where children suffer. I try
to
speak softly, where pain is wailing, to flip near hell; but
families
feud, and stream for peace, at the expense of souls.
We
wait it out, and sort the facts, as structured as curfew.
Try
to swim, through marsh and mud, and sprinkle self with
light;
for love is rich, a mind to shift—through rift and storm;
but
I love you like koans, to vet a mind, lost in epiphanies;
and
I search a verse, to wrought a gem, to wrangle life.
