to attack and demonize, to see and
respect, too far to reach lilacs.
private discussions, shared
diaries, many manuscripts in the attic.
aside the pianist the drumming
begins, most have an agenda, more have ideas.
the phobic hyena, wailing in
silence, dying from the reverberation.
much in its design, sort of
pigeonholed, one might unveil some contempt, for one with a dubious reception.
longer dreams. many might cast
judgement. some beliefs the world races against. ashes would pile high.
we might analyze, exaggerate, or
get it right.
how do we say— “I’m not thinking of
that, it’s just there?”
not everyone will agree, sadly
understood, with much to surmise, more to sort through.
when it opens—the dungeon contents—each
space is met with a label: either like us, or against us.
many attributes. much dedication.
it comes time to understand—the leaves piling high, the inward sage, and if
trusting self is hard—how does one trust others?
in passing, he noticed, she is more
of what he never became.
the system seemed imbalanced.
something is askew. many begin to identify the missing parts.
he flung his pencil—to soil and dry
dirt; he sat upon a grassy area; his gaze was met by a snail — life has been
that way. the fruit on the skies, has ways of coming to us.
was tears ago, the conflict in man,
the countenance seeming indifferent. it never mattered much. it seemed natural.
we need classes on what love looks like.
searching for insouciance, maybe
serenity, minding myself, and still questioned.
