Moonshine,
heart-spheres, deciding on living; to die in you, ribbons for departure, sudden
into a spear—major minds, aloof realities, never good enough for you: so proud,
such goodness, too abstract for concrete lies; panic presumed, love averted,
organized for glory. Alas, too many loses, sung sweet wrongness, accustomed to
neglect: ghetto seasons, richness in tenderness, given with a clause; fury of
interior, begging to get things straight, remaining below have-nots.
Love
was living, romancing by visual, sore vice, accredited with sinning—by arts,
love, treasuries … adoring some part of you, displeased with core revenue,
needing to walk away: make it even, headed into God’s Arms, a long ways to
freedom.
Morose
at a second, you demand happiness, so great in insistence; with begrudging,
needing liberty from rumors, to have unknowingly wakened a dragon. Corse deliverance,
trying not to offend, wondering what it means: favor with feelings, to be
aware, to fret over well-being, distraught, frustrated, it isn’t living.
