If he survived The March,
he might live to see a gun
before a man, his eyes glowing
of nothing but hate for this world.
The War was hardly civil,
a banal crux of indigene scarcities,
of choosing Heaven's diagonals
–juxtapositions– all opposing;
and from its exigent front
to inverting lens,
to finding view in a large box camera,
he was a posturing bower of double bluffs,
pretentious –minus the negative tinge.
The depths of his legs were blunt,
formed with ramming and fleeing in mind;
as for his upper mass – for controlling,
it held little but 'still' and sight for a smoothbore.
Over the seizing sounds of cannons,
of far-taut, well-taught false-simplicities,
a savage peroration for many,
from which many and he both prayed,
each shot through
from passing form
is nothing more than against me."
Again, Only to Find This
"I'm tired of this being
– all it is, I do."
But by the will of God,
any of us was he,
to walk this same path on request.
His life had passed before him:
Still for another still;
she was twenty-four,
as was he,
though age, now, made no difference;
he had come to a place of fertile senescence
where all was nameless
and every shrill unknown was harrowing of death.
Here, needing a reason to be,
was to solely biding time
and hoping to be forgiven.
So he searched for nostalgia
in what she must have seen when they'd met.
But timid, the good would then part,
again, only to find This.
Without Committal Inroads
"This is the World... where we were;
its convenience was not my doing.
But how can you not sense this, Fate,
and still treasure events concurring?"
Reading what I wrote,
that's what he'd have written
on this, a day of soring in-steps
and dreams of taking fields,
of victory without loss,
without committal inroads.
Coercive like Surgery
The Labor of War,
each with two people sharing difference,
it's one of those things:
The more you know,
the more you know,
you don't know.
The War, or its rounds
were coercive like surgery;
bayonet over barrel,
they were under the knife.
And only because no one else would
in this place where it landed.
The strain on his legs was bowing,
but he would not follow them, as he did;
"I'm Lost," as he did
reach the Lines of Thoughts for Future,
leaving room for ones recurring:
"I'm Lost"... impossibly.
When Lucky Is Deserved
Through times of arrogance
and foolishness in that sense,
a recurring thought unheeded:
When lucky was deserved.
lights of lasting
shades, of glowing,
of image and sentiment
from previous exposure,
no matter how farfetched.
From this shell to Her buccal's depression
To those who were any, it persuaded the Expecting.
And like a hole in the wall, which acts as a window
to another room, Outside,
Act in knowing...
On this step," it would numb;
"I've offered you impossible,
and say you say, 'Who cares?'
at the worst of times..."
But his mind was for ideas,
and never places;
"For her sake,
and little mine.
Must the moment pass?
"It's a given – 'You know;'...
we've talked about this."
"Forgive me from what-
-I am deserving,"
As though if written in pen,
that Janus of malfeasance
would still be there.
Our Winter's Treks
Rain came at the pace of walking
...and would race
with their flee,
meeting afield where abstract—specific
joining the fugitive, sieven hopes...
buried 'n hiding—from a break by settling souls
stripped on wiry underbrush
as with Our Winter's treks:
...Soused with Her brutish heart
of lost feeling in reality.
The Context of Rhythm
"Take care—my brothers...
my sons;" they fired
–a shot in the dark
with no target to begin with,
these Opposites: inclined,
or rather, obliged
to 'Hear' from Life...
The Context of Rhythm.
And for valor, these houses of cards
had but thin air
at their 'very' foundation,
as when – this—Time's only act...
with not a sense of patience,
veracity shown at their crux:
To all those East of this setting,
Sun's death, it was
...and a thousand times over this day;
and to his eyes,
a single fall
-meaning this minutely:
Grow up to control, learning to let go;
with of in this, the Chosen saying,
"As I was you
–competing with all."
The Unvarying use of Lidded Eyes
Over names as though they were no one,
he wrote for their loves' unlettered,...
of Humans no longer...Being generic
in bodies of work
...calling in me
a thought to the forefront:
'I want to talk to you.'
with point inverted,
'No. The you behind you.'"
Solis Astrays emerged from the basing default of Night;
these astrals were His bequeathing,
as much by This millenary spectrum
was, too, the conception of Man
when likened to his using of lidded eyes.
And in such, mine fore-sought
– They longed for anticipation,
the truest currency of this Man
as to a recollection of dreams or sired thought
but 'taining solely Mere prior;
for All could only fall short of somewhere I wasn't.