It
morphs softly, that wellic cry, at satori
with vengeance—to know his rivals, this casual war, as sore effective at
fields. We love enough, as never that more, a fire dissociative; to mourn mirrors, or ignore mirrors, at
treasures to disrupt that inner cycle: those cloudy herbs; that burning flame;
while detached that feeling, It goes no
higher. We destroy countries, awaiting our praise, by measures to science
dysfunctional. We crave violence, as perfect a dream, refusing to accept our
rubrics. It’s cold by journey, as iron interrupts wind—smelted by actions; as,
nevertheless, those precious impressions, by association moving backwards; else
to slavery, as Just because, or
suffer by angst that inner audit—to examine thoughts, albeit, those pillars, so
personal our claims; where mothers perish, while fathers perish, this thing of Never us! I see a rubric, as selfish an ark, at this
game we call pretend: our inner
pretenses; our stubborn hubris; where life is forced to recant—that break in
souls, as never a voice, this game of
pacification: our inner persons; those cruel jabs; or lights to urns that we
must ignore: that violent outlash; as to hit but clear of responsibility; as
suffering made cordial—that moody shift, that countenance screaming, a child’s
need to tend to adults. Oh for flowers, and blue-buttered cookies, and 7up soda
pop; where seconds are disguised, a pair of hummingbirds, or a group of kids
philosophizing: that mental activity, our rooms to smoke, our years at playing
pretend; to ask for normality, this touch we can’t feel, while, nonetheless,
required to effuse emotions. I’m sick and tired; and I strain to see it; this
constant reminder; as sore affected, flipping through pages, pausing to recite
a psalm: a flippant air, or pure compassion, this splay of affections. I hoped
for normal, as claimed for senses, while equipped to guide a swan: that inner
arrow, our points at flame, as never for safety. Oh as paranoid, scraping at
rearview(s), reaching for that sparrow: nibbling cold facts, a bit
metaphysical, thinking, A mother’s sadness is more important. It
comes that way, while filtering emotions, required as men to cater to love; as
scriptural dictates, or compassionate mercies, while moving through this vest
of logistics: our revving mechanics, rebuked for tears, while, nonetheless,
nothing changes. (I sound dreary, as disgruntle with hope, while at sales
through theologians; as seeping higher, to fly lower, at wars with
appropriateness; as, thereupon, this war with Hobbes, or forbidden Nietzsche,
our minds to defining human activity; as cursed to behave, or blessed to
behave, peering at this flooded cup—and sensing a gulf, where coffee stains, as
grapes mourn, while affection becomes a short excursion. We say things, agaze’d
by children, knitting by grace our rockets: that fluffy gingerbread; that tangy
lemonade; our strawberry icing: if but to live, at tears something precious, at
sores that name; where love was passion, as eyes would water, a man so hurt he
fails to feel; but love was danger, sipping Dr. Pepper, nibbling Hi-Chew
Sours). Be free, Love; sing softly,
Love; protect, Love.
