Intermitted Sockets

I waited for it, this sullen castle, our woes to gravel—as flaring dusts, tearing tunics to shreds, or romanticizing affectations: this spacial woman, this casual scream, our inner office to silence.  I waited for it, this melancholic vice, that sober dispensation: our muddy cries, our sodden weeping(s), our willows becoming impatience: that hooded man, that archer with pride, our palms seducing dirt: as vacant minds, or lavish thinkers, a tare to remoteness.  I thimble feelings, while threading existence, winking at spirits pitted his guts: this hardened woman, those myriad faces, or that vexed vixen studied by sameness: our shames inverted, our angular habits, this present sickness: as small florets, or blooming lotuses, unto deaths trailed by gladiators.     I waited for justice, laughing at mirrors, accustomed to chewing discontentment: I waited for passions, agreed with purposes, infused with tyrannies: (as souls are taught, this vest to lands, where sheer rejection becomes our family’s motif).     I waited for it, where some would assume it, while energies travel pinning ribbons: that torn exchange, those winter leaves, this taupe-green soul: those icy gravel, that watery mud, those mice roaming our attics: those shattered pipes, those years to negligence, our friends as substances—or torn manipulation, seated in vessels, ruminating over firebrand.     It’s rarely accurate; and rarely subtle; and rarely without motive: our garment alligators, our autumn crocodiles, or life as sleeping this leopard’s dreams—wherewith, this miserable joy, or this frantic bliss, while engines purr seeking refuge.     I waited for it, to address its mystery, where centerpieces become vocal-points: our truest feelings, as warped humans, studied for released fumbling male-consensus: that disconnect, as partly misogynist, while families perish to agree: whereas, vultures churn, misdirected by life, where good is evaluated by pliable: that cistern leaking, this kettle whistling, our souls to insistence.