This
life is
but
a thread of odds
a
shadowed Viking
pulling
internally.
I’m
torn for moving, and moving for torn, to tug at self. It’s
a
vast world, filed with ghosts, to stencil souls. I see for
signs,
a bit unbolted, to struggle a yawn. I love for love, a
web
of feelings, streaming through tones. It steeps a heart,
to
muster grit, to paint a forest. It’s high for pains, a sober
low,
composing waves. We need for anodyne, a type of
healing,
to concretize joy; but what for woes, to sculpt an
opus,
to exit margins; for more a trumpet, to feel for
sickness,
a fleece of winning. I burnish dreams, to filter
sorrow,
to wrestle an overcast. It’s more to fathom, a legend
for
combat, pausing in a desert. We love it pious, to feel
ourselves,
the best of a mansion; but life is turns, to churn for
winds,
standing in a valley. Such with credence, an eye of
pearls,
a cliff of cults. I wonder less, to see it morph, a
superior
loathing my soul. I reckon not, where others live, to
wrestle
shadows. It’s more a vest, to shelter hearts, yanking
at
spears. We live it for winning, a coquettish art, as chaste
as
ambitions. So live it, a form of spinning, for myrrh to love.
