By rumor to have execution. From depth a curse. I held
a dam. I couldn’t breathe. Neat, humble suffocation. Like he said, those odd
things inside, better, a lie, nothing else inside. Life was depicted,
picturesque, pictorial, threshed, throttled, baffled. Marks in flesh, asking
questions, Love so despondent, simple things, they die harshly. We desire
deeper seas, plumbing earth, bare toed horizons. I couldn’t feel much. It took
time. It was called desensitization; well, I thought so. Trauma, our curse,
thrown into violence, facing vehemence, acidic bowels, vomit into deserts.
Bodily sky-shakes, an inner clarinet, reaping silence, woven into undulations.
Days have sullen nature, rain pours, at moments, religion is desolate, a
difficult space, with seeming deafness. Upon a temblor, to return, needing circuits,
fey, sunrise—in tears, so thankful, still, at moments, unfeeling. I sat there,
speaking to a wall, sweating in an armchair—wild inheritance, willows wafting,
Job submitted, most see a bet, trying to dispute value, apologizing for Divinity.
By rumor to have execution: needing numen, afire, asunder, a kettle’s dialogue:
wailing! Love bounced back. Filled by splendor. In time, with woes, to have
sung sufferings.
