There is so much more to this.

The music does not make song

but the foetal space

amongst famous walls

filled with such au fait grief

and there a beast floats

to see the fear fleeting

on their new found face

in some unfailing destiny,

there she silently screams,

a flame away

God so violently benign

in his passive spirit-

He forges her-

to breath truly ...

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that boat on the coast croons the waves

whisking a dying infant in

a baptist sea for saving,

brought faith in God to save them,

a baptist sea for saving.

I see them from sand afloat-

a buoy in the water with chance

and such a sacred body

might sinking be belief-

to then arise them another-

alive.

[2020]

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this bizarre plea for that dystopia

dug here with slumber  

which might sleep for friendship.

maybe creep and demise passing,

a prayer and an assembly,

me and God in his chamber,

a euphoric chalice

that grasps a spade to dig

but who am I to find such bliss in the anxious ground?

I take a spade and dig

but who am I to find such bliss in the anxious ground?

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you and your psychedelic phrases

did they plunge from your tailing tongue?

perchance I took breaths from the room,

exhaled, and put them back in your mouth

moving, placing my ear near your lips,

pausing for an air lick near my neck-

lifted eyelids and confusion  

so, then the comfort could come

when I would speak your surroundings-

the bed, the door, and the soft sheet

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