Saturday, October 16, 2021

Through Darkness: The Corner Store Survivor

 

let it be the mastery of the mischief of pure darkness—the kiss of its rage, some dragon—it’s me—I’m falling, the skies are on the other side. somewhere inside resounds a dungeon—the beauty of torn apart—the wax as it burns the books written in this vein—a succession of sentences, a person I’ve called, a response, it was delirious.

days are erased, trauma is inveterate, those on skis are depressed—rolling faster, a feeling falling to knees, a million miles from me; the deep dark blues, the violin on torture, the bass thumping at seas; those waves thrumming inside, the guitar crying, such beauty in two feeling desperate—never felt so much, a place in music, where does it come from?

we might suggest a fraction of moons—phones ringing, dialers burning out, I’ve tried to reconcile—eyes to pages, new violence, pure disadvantages; 2000 years of darkness, effacing medieval trials, like never this benighted—the torture of the cage, the dim reasoning, made of bronze. so prophetic, so accidental, many futuristic spears.

let pain exhaust talents, shooting into spaces, traveling into deeper regions—unlocking a piece of science, watering desert dirt, as sober or softer, those roads into shimmering rain—the fields with cotton, association in religion, so written, as if true, while disagreement means confrontation; so chilled, pure ice, never a day for rest.

I’ve come to the table, erasing parts of history, pages set aflame—teachers assaulted, murdered, for no greater reason—intellect banned, logic forced to the guillotine, fathers and mothers and children to the chambers—a rough agony, a symbol in flesh, an older lady running a corner store.

too much to redeem, survivors at the piano, digging for sought to fly. a legacy fraught by anguish, misery sounding its flute, observing the desert; lessons learned, the world to our nights, rummaging dearest divine secrets … taught with care, in a frenzy to win, so silent about helping—wanting so much to share—the burden of the mountain, the lights in terrors, just to escape—volunteering to return.     

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...