Wednesday, March 18, 2020

Daughter Dialogue

—by fantast koans or blurry epistemic(s) where speaking it might assist you; the texture of souls the tender imprint even mother’s fury; this drilling mechanic this endless fiction or days so close we missed essence: as a treasured feeling a snowball-fire while proofs have become unimportant; we die this vein we clog our interior while anything becomes a fireplace—

become the tiara so found in honesty—don’t become pure desires!

but life is nectar it devours and releases while many have lost resilience.

our
reputations precede us
they herald our images                        while so many are angered.                a soul may love you prior to full inventory                     and a soul might regret you.

a
person is out to sea another has touched land
where life is in between: there are heavy dynasties and heavier goddesses while living isn’t simple; those mindsets fret or worry while flickering
fissions where most things are complaints; one might tug at you, but be wise,
for our reputations are always up for re-debates.

it becomes classism or education levels or behavioral patterns.

such thunderstorm mystery, a woman’s charm, where societies have raced into havoc; those nightingale trumpets those fierce fires or balls of lumbar and design; to ask something keen, to inquire why hate is eternal, where the answer sounds defensive; this element in persons, this knowhow in souls, where a silent demon might win heaven.

billows are vibrant such wistful waves but a trinket to remember us.

maybe cured or situated or
maybe argued-out and complaisant—those years get heavier;
such psychic ink, such inhome debates or a little something to catch up around thirty;
but I
fathom something, something harmful, where one is set but the other is uninformed:
we leave him living that way!

softer lights or harsher winds while many are screaming—Let me free; veils or egos or pleasures and sanctums where anguish is universal;
to petition the tower or to roam the streets while searching for the beloved;
our ways stick like sap where we wash by efforts but the shirt is ruined.

become by diligence ignite by sparks and
be equipped when one asks, Who and What you are.             

I’d Save The Reader Years

    The beat becomes sickness. A long crucible—a drilling ecstasy. I was losing focus, feeling forbidden, if to self, if to mirrors. So curs...