I can’t fathom pain, aside from its origins, to wonder why
it lingers; for joy comes and goes, to appear as private, moving through
psychic waves; but pain forms a legacy, this lifetime war, resistant to
fleeing. I felt a thump, pushing towards his brain, as the heart communicates
wisdom; this weathered piano, or this organ of souls, fevered at its entrance;
where exits are cycles, running through a vestibule, to roar as we chase. I
know not the rain, that has flooded the city, as beavers become frantic; and I
know more the chase, this vest of balance, as a mirror unseen; to know for
culture, the value of turmoil, this art linking ethnicities. Years have
spoken—of resilient pains, a group of souls seeking psychiatry; or more the
tools, that invade our lands—of this inner dichotomy; that want for yes, where
a breakthrough occurs, as to return to frantic moments. We often forgive, and
still have to suffer, while the culprit rests in peace. It’s quite unfair, as
to forgive for self, while another reigns as unaccountable. They shift and
surf, and skate and dream, waiting for Conscience to show up; where life is
them, while rain is us, where they refuse to be concerned. I know not the
magic, this man of Conscience, coming from a bleak past; and I know not the thrill,
of forking brains, as to repeat a riddled path: the fiery hells, the barren
valleys, the meadows colored in coals; where grass is bleeding, while plums are
plump with worms, as to symbolize the dying of souls: this casual affair, as
none were mindful, as to trust a facial response; this fool of dreams, buried
in confusion, wrestling with flames.
