I drift into a faint cave. I see petroglyphs. I hear myself breathing. It was sly on parts. It was anguished in soul. In understanding; in ignoring facts. A soul was elated to feel selected, still with a Lean on Me feeling. I was taken by crafts, looking at physicality, a bit deficit inside. Pain is a locomotive. Joy is a privilege. I might have an issue, running into my regions, guts wheezing, mind threshed; such a loss—no body realized it, one of those things, where one knows with certainty. I keep pushing myself. It will manifest in its breeze. I’m still walking this cave. It has become like answers. The cave-mind, the phantom core, floating into emotion. I saw a life given to hopes. Granny was up against a brick wall. Just a glimpse: years in a room, wailing at mental matter, trembling, shifting through various realities. I drift into a faint cave. I see portraits. Each line is universe. The shadow of colors. Eyes coming to life. With some of what we’ve been through, it’s a wonder, more to undergo, life would have it no other direction. Like Outlaws trading war stories; like heroes of the slums: I can’t imagine what souls suffer. To witness is different than to experience. Thank goodness for pillars. Thank goodness for strength. So many wounds. No one speaks to how they change us. They speak to survival.
