I think it’s taken for granted.
I think one has her life.
The sickness of the flight, and parents have to leave.
I was distraught, filled with pressure, I stopped at one’s perch, I was asked to leave.
Not much for mercy, searching out mercy.
I vanished. I ran faster. I leaped.
Many would doubt. Many would reject animus.
I wanted her, like going blind, a problem for life.
Maybe off a leash, begging like feeble, denied like incredible.
I hear one in silence, those ripples flood a pond, those geese just watch.
So amazed at Love, reading herself, ignoring her essence.
I tried to laugh, amidst a nightmare, and mother died.
I’m filled with eczema—nerves bleeding, to guess at
a smile.
It was hellish. No need to feel badness. One never knew.
To gather berries. To enter a winepress. To dispute those few wires.
Honestly, I imagined eternity, so astute to it, feigning distraction, the wealth is the bloodshed.
I give one to herself. I hope it’s ecstatic.
