Tuesday, February 2, 2021

Wolves, Dragons, & Innocence

 

haven dungeon as made sweet such eyes in Judah; by uncaging violence or pain in flight such submission to a promise. a need to believe a want to worship if but some net in humans. raw texture an addict’s flame while reading our vests. to die with you the sea at our shoulders while true pain carries its globes. so taboo while we swim at some honor to resurrect. water dripping dogs lapping a lion in disguise. those leopard lips or a cheetah’s fire as striking through an entire plain. too many wounds as to vex a child, to then ask of what happened. a picture in a locket pure belief in a person where many cherish the pain they rake. so cold so freezing so steep—in islands forced to lands while whales are trapped on shore. a man to his mother a fantasy to her ocean while she hopes for dear miracle; such webs such bricks while adoring mother was so easy—those thunder patches those pendulums those tragic funerals. an urn of ash, a tray with ash, a feeling to die with Jesus. a fleeing man a raiding spirit, while rising into some cocoon; a vandal in scripture a need for slavery while still a Christian. such explanation such hush-hush venom, while yet to get to its roots. (some opus as to know, it lives in that box we channel.) pure river-mania or maniac love while to hear you is to exhaust you. a hydrant for souls or lightning for thieves where a murk man may become effervescence. a tinge of scars so strung in weather while old souls are meeting for victory.

so mnemonic so natural with Love scratching a lottery ticket. by sins of father as weighed in guts where mother was so susceptible. a fire’s ache while it hurts to realize innocence has a curfew. to become so wise as losing approachability while feeling so lonely. suspicious of God, suspicious of rewards, while acknowledged as a rare creature. by fane bleeding by rain jogging while neurotransmitters are guts in irony. to flood his brain to unburden her arc such raging desperation.    

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...