about the transformation of the neglected or weary parts of life , parts that suffered or sinned. but how prolong we try, it never appears perfect as we are so entangled with our past , and whatever we think or try hard to settle things at the end of the day often someone else decides our tomorrow.
Felicitous, all incessant days of storm and flying
windshields; withstanding the incarnation of a black rose,
hails-guards wiping out stumbled traces of pinpricked toes,
under the screaming thunderbolt, petals fluxing
in Heraclitus change; in kiss of the watery bless,
transdermal love essence; smell of something burnt
and wet and amalgamated with souls that behaved errant
in their eon of rebuttal by division through emptiness.
and the rest of the rests riverred down, from shoulder’s
forlorn, building drops, with ounces of pain released down
through nails and thorns, knees and roots, towards ever-dangling
vision of those drugged eyes, amazed in eternity, hanging
in horizon, where the juggling hands of smiling clowns
playing with the akin sea and sky; deciding fate as outsiders.