Was
it joy—the remnants of pain, this mini-seaquake; to die so young, as gripping a
swan, as beige as reality?—or was it love, this vague impression, as lethal as
a first scar? We rolled upon skates, barely of age, to fall upon knees. We
rolled a bike, as mother held us, to realize loneness. I couldn’t but perish,
to feel your hands, gripping at our throats; to laugh as rain, as tender
anguish, alert to a subtle death. I fail to waft, at times too angry, to
address a fellow human; for there are rights, as the right to fail, as to be
forgiven; but what was hell—a mother alone, fending for a future?—for what was
heaven—to find a mate, to repeat an earnest cycle! I feel so warm, alluding to
writing, to ponder a professor. We’ll never meet, for this is gray, the hells
of gravity; but what was pain—this furious scar, this wound dripping confusion?
I ask to cry, this internal rhythm, a stanza in our souls; for rhyme is life,
this maze of patterns, this fission of wisdoms; to haunt our cores, this inner
turn, nearly maladjusted. I passed a lung—a fountain of liquor, as mourning
your ruby cheeks; but what was love, to die so quickly, to disappear with
troubles? Its furious hate, this ballad of scars, to hurt as a thousand
stitches. It can’t be real, to enter a womb, where fever condemns existence! We
know for laughter, buried in pain—a table filled with drugs; but what for life,
this agile force, pleading us to do rightly? I ask to fall, to appease such
angst, to appraise a fellow soul; for earth has risen, as quick to battle, as
filled with regrets. I knew your soul, a poet’s market, Our Father’s last plea;
as born to trauma, as felt abandoned, searching for a parent. It can’t be real,
this inner torment—a cause to sit in sackcloth.
