Upon an eagle’s feather, marble encased, pulling at
boundaries; memories in personas, blending into personalities, vacations in new
images.
Abounding in make-believe, Porsche passions, made
incorrect in the raspberry sunlight.
Sewed in condition—arranged by a cosmic hand,
stressed at an incandescent cliff—those fringes, a hawk’s tendons, more
clutching an invisible warning;
made of coal, painting with charcoal, bone, skeleton,
and dreams.
Over red beans and rice, buttery breads, and bacon
bits; a softer song, a sin sullen voice, with dear presence.
Sore sincerity, holding gothic mysticism, harboring
medieval arts. A soul with pictures inside, to sketch a terrific pain, love was
once pure religion.
