The pain is the story. The story was vetted, eyes
teary, to imagine what humans endure. I was dreaming, to see many sights, like
approaching closer to the sewer. They need brains, a different creature, a
little weird. I need answers. I examine each corner. I imagine it’s deeper than
what I can conjure. Maybe gone. Maybe loose inside. I feel tight, locked
screws, maybe too much belief. (We must be careful. We must insist on clarity.
To disbelieve in self, and it’s easier to conquer him.) I was younger. I held a
triumph. She was lethal. (Some are designed to push back, to go inside, to
imagine what it looks like.) I need evidence. Despite what breathes. Despite
what breeds. I need to see sequences. Each letter is against itself. Each sky
is watching. We never talk about segments, delineating the mountains, wrestling
with coyotes. I knew Love wasn’t ready. I fell back. One might not look into
self. Pressing outward. Sensing arrogance. Never to realize, a lack of courage.
Many aren’t ready. It’s coming. We’ll meet at the tribunal.
