tulips out of concrete,
dear pain feeling excellent,
same worded vocabulary
destroying me gently
raiding my conscious,
the story in its telling.
it works differently, it’s
crazy
the lazy snake, the roaring
root, so
accursed, no
more laughing.
I know about it, they call it by a name, they call it
depression.
I’m not eager to see heaven, nor do I care dearly for
hell,
with emotions seeming like scars—the bars of the
mighty
ambition, those curses from a stranger, rebuked by
each
seeing strength. Many become martyrs. Many seek
healing in physicality; sexual genotypes, addicted to
phenotypes, made existential, the pleasure of abuse, a
soul screaming at some person. The undisclosed person,
so desperately beautiful, a soul in her terrors, a
precious
intoxication, more fingerprints; a deliberate
greeting, a
forced observation, trying to escape a feeling.
