the more i try
it just gets worse.
rushing through me
overwhelming every effort to accommodate
to master no thing
but to carry
through waves that betide all sense
left of tenor, peals the bellow
that taur us, a sunder
then stills the be⋅at to silent hoof bore
and static in ebb flows to shore
the heart, once more surrends.
speak is not a word so easy
when twists the butterfly wings to swell
mourning comes and sun does naught
for warming sorrow of night’s tail/tale
kept aloft fer anoth’r day’s spilling
for ’tis too much fer th’telling
weary cannot just⋅ice give
to deter, I do the thing not wanted
to deter, i orate:
and cat’s catch the tome on the wind
I can no longer revisit.
I cannot revisit.
I cannot revise it.
in silent retreat
and all releases, felt
or rather, an olde thing comes home
and ice cream.. cannot soothe the ache of time.
it does not get better.
but it does get the better of me.
I soar.. to another whirl’d
to another world when begets the beat of hearts.
I’m not coming back. This is my home