We
die your justice, that inner killing, to swarm perceptions. I cried the
daylight hours, to watch dysfunction, as one alive in loneness; to venture this
current, this spectrum of us, amazed by hits of joy; but there’s a woman, to
gaze and stare, enlove with circumstances. I see us blinking, alert but
shallow, as to protect self. We fall the ridges, to lose for friends, the
heaven of correctness. It was ever grief, to random this light, a ransom for
drifting. What is this case, a mother for the terrors, alive as one’s sorrows;
to flit and fly, the sky as fallin’, to nestle in broken cages; or live this
life, a soldier in therapy, as blank as a woman’s fear; but it couldn’t be, a
grave attraction, to something so vague; in which is drama, to aid professions,
abroad in a sitting cell. I heard for love, this shaken self, to realize deep
illusions; of maybe crawling, a myth in a vase, to hear you screaming, I’m here! But this is folly, even a
fantasy, to fancy what the mind needs: a
place to relax, a shelter from realty, even the Twilight Zone. Was it us, the world inflamed, this inward infusion?
It must have been, for death withheld—this fatal hand: to die and leap from the
hands of grief, if only a moment in space; so hold me close, this woman my
heart, as aloof as not present; to wrestle the gray, as something black and
white, a centipede to exhale. It was never us, this grand departure, to trouble
our peers; and it was ever us, this tallest tale, as cryptic as the mind; to
fall and rise and rise and fall, a sequence to burden inner laws. I love you
more, for such retreat, to push this angst of prose; where demons cry, and
angels wail, to fail God’s commission; but more to life, to see us through, the
tides as falling through diamonds.
