when will the flame break
and spare the good people it takes
Today was not a bad day, nor was it unkind or heated or many things. Many things have gone unsaid through many years, but to them whom I owe, I pay them rightly, pay them righteously. And this is not meant to be in a godlike manner, not with stiff tempest or shattering hail-like tears. What use is such effect. No, it is meant that they are to be given the grace and slow wax of true cordiality, the subtle warmth and tease. It's a cocaine abstraction, a summer phantom twilighting in the headlight wash. Such passivity is our winter, our barren gravitas blown through the green terraces.
And so they'll all build veiled little kingdoms on the petty, proper, pauper graves and they'll come forgotten to me asking for a simple hapless ray. Because I am. We all are in an eventuality, but then again there are only enough hope strings hung from the corpse that is the land. We cook our sacrifices in wars and holy, shambolic, godhead-bloodshed, like so many relieved columns pushing forward our eyes to the fronting gape of bluest lacquer, blackest ribboned, deeper vermillion gorged over each sky.
I am a plant, such silver branches are life I give to go as deep in earth as high above framing the world, this greater outer pin that I is. I am but a plant, a complex vessel full of frail tribulations, conjuring magic so scientific. I am but a plant, a tremble, treble leaf so green with vigorous pride of youth, but failing to find the converse mention of daring simplicity breathing in my stoma. I am open. I am open.
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