I’ve
framed a mistake, tired of reaching, doing it, nonetheless;
in
absence, to see presence, symbolic purple—
edging
towards reaching, bathed in inadequacy, tired of absence.
You
seem cured, albeit, heavy, to see you unlock—
chambers
and voltage, acting naturally, like old country folks;
tallness,
as it drifts, courage, as it flourishes, born ebbing between beauties.
Many
solemn seconds, pure grayness, to find a man guilty, for he tried reaching …
never
his soul, looking back at determination, frowning, filled with loathing.
I’ve
framed an apology, reaching more rain, sullen sickness, sickle swords, arranged
to see one too much oaken pain;
daylight
blues, wonder ever after itself, to become specimen, research, neither human
nor alien, a casual feeling, a dismissal in time, to have noticed a rising
distress.
Looking,
of course, traipsing passed, wiles and waning, approach and retreat;
nothing
works, it’s all for naught, as one believes in reaching.
To
be noticed, to fulfill purpose, used, abused, just for rites, denied humanity,
just for range … trying to commandeer Love, like a fool:
they
have history, pain, manipulation, art, passion, etc.
I’ve
framed armor, becoming vulnerable, feeling, in spite of self—
time
in thought, to make it forever a gem, tongues remain tied ….
I
would catch an old emotion, balancing on a tightrope, forbidding itself as it
would rise—estrangement, alienation, attached to reframing, reaching,
nonetheless.
In
a space, addicted to expression, waning on the esoteric, comfortable to be a
Believer;
neither
asking for it, nor needing it, as for further the days.
Each
ingredient permeates the stew—becoming significant, blending into a paste, if to
believe what wasn’t said.
