This
inner dying, the cries of life, his journal in blood; oh the fleece, soaked in
crimson, this inner reflection. Oh the mirrors, cracked with gravel, as scraped
with scribes. He couldn’t believe it, to lose a child, as vile as terrorists.
The crime was done, to split his cranium, as for years of meditation; and
mother died, as fried as Clinton, this living of sin. He couldn’t believe it,
as sick as Satan, screaming, Redemption; and
he couldn’t see it, his own reflection, as distorted as lust. Something took to
give—this life of cobblestones, to proclaim the message; to perish the love, as
sorted through science, to finally comprehend; and what neuroses, to center
experience, as objective as the subject. He couldn’t but feel, the thrill of
entrance, as captured in moments; oh the fierceness, painted in fury, as blurry
as fire. He would shatter heaven, as to scurry hell, afloat a woman’s
promise. What for dreams, as what for
futures, as to give our souls; as to die winning, as to grin for grit, as to
love for features. He won the Pyrrhic victory, as to sin the loses, as crooked
as straight; as feral the roads, buried in alleys, dodging bullets. The graph
was short, left with little room, as to maneuver the politics. He channeled the
message, as living alone, to confide in a public square. The reach suffers, as
complaisant souls, an outdated textbook; as if kidnapped, watching the freest
day, held hostage within; as nights churn, to distort images, as to say, It’s not like me. He felt for years, the
deepest sighs, a vacuum as a dream; to hear for spirits, the whisper of the
winds, this inner, Why; to soften a
motive, as a glassy core, on the brink of splitting: a mind for a course, a
teacher as a foe, a fever as a mentor.
