into terrors, gothic delights, quicker
satisfaction. marooned or saved, such ink
on wrath, hearing welts in walls, sure to fret
a haunting—livid detail, mimicry
to have life, by frightened undercurrents.
I was born murky, sustained by darkness;
I was made, kept naïve, by chills, dimness, at
cliffs, some injustice, punished for lineage.
(You seemed furious. What about Mercy?
Has she died? Has the career permanence?)
seeping into us. never much laughter.
a soul with goth. a station in spirits.
long live pash, at pains, or mothers at war;
one takes interest. we can’t see why. one
sees the power, foresees the accounts, lives
to overthrow design. it wasn’t true—
as it entered thoughts, so uneven, so
farfetched; in loving it churns, it is bronze—
the family of its curse, the apple
of its dilemma. to need you as flame—
agonizing a sheer pass; one in sin,
a soul can’t escape, though we try, indebt
to life, adroit with shame, I try the path;
you spoke, gave stealth away, pure affliction.
I walk further, a tall ghost, some are mad;
souls are coming back; souls are with aglets.
I came by grace, faced with much, we noticed
pains, distance, the inner trait, the large gnat;
if to arrange love, to ask of faith, the
domino effect, leading to more breath.
you’re precious, as for presence, to mourn ink:
eyes said too often, a nape coughing, a
guillotine broken, partially dead. I
faint to see—a more hankering soul; the
plight in fey, the fever roaring with aim.
