I’ll never see again those valleys those aches running
into blurriness.
The mirage was appealing. Inner
chambers, mental caves, alive in an
instance of suffering. Closer to Christ.
The story told an old narrative.
Washing my fleece, scribbling my guts,
traveling layers. So astute to one
fact, most will sacrifice for what they
adore. The noble pains, aloof to
reasons, just decided inside. I see
ascetic rain. I hear contrite cries. A
beleaguered soul, most gracious in arts,
moving towards distance.
Life is a sketchbook, filled with
consciousness, one marvels, something is
different, some praise, others chide, chastise,
so skilled the man after his demise.
Into a trance-zone—a summary of
wailings, a mystery he mustered a
smile—peculiar spirits, giggling with
eyes watery, guts hurting, trying to
antagonize freedom. And the lissome
gallica, such lassitude, sparked
by a simple sunrise.
