Saturday, December 26, 2020

Each Stitch Unthreads Its Core

 

I grapple with silence as exchanged for loudness while father sinned so deeply—those dear pains those purest insanities where fire hits like rage—our curse our generational abandonment where many have seen justice. by baffled observer or irritability at a low point in development. a scribbled heartbeat, an odic explanation some thunder shot as time was closing. I watch sunset while disbelieving—someone we shore with: those deserving welts such funerals in passion, such an elegy for survival. torn disbelief. gritting teeth. so much gnashing at tender walls. those cuts in egos those bruises in spirits while sacrificed for bread crumbs; not a decent apology, not a sign of regret, or more anger for an acquisition was accurate. the flowers are observing they drain anxieties a man in his mother’s garden; so flippant inside, such contempt inside, while saying, “Yes Dear!” the future in its beliefs those skies unveiling or morning sun-dust occupying our universe. but a pantomime ghost but a surviving lover or such remorse those days it meant so much. eyes to a problem, where it had to exist, a person disgusted by another’s fortune. it reigns as true, so closed off, a person becomes hungry—for debt or damage or hell inside; the root of its forest those aches in its woods or reverberation in our concrete. a foolish existence so secure it hurts while one is softer on ambition—the fret of the bobcat the temple of the jaguar or sudden into a dragon’s mouth. to have lived in deceit to have given deceit where one questions their fabrication—that life in its riches those things we accumulate or such artificial reliance. as needing something inhuman something too critical—where participants are accountable for insanities. so much a jackknife or a jackal or a jingle; so much a padlock or a truer dimension or pangs like giving birth—the fury we undergo the underground we dig while soil coughs up ghosts. by reluctance to be as if that person in dreams where too much wealth spears hopes—for lusts prowl as if inside a cathedral such a firm need for impactive adoration.   

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...