Hurt. I think it all hurt;
Those eyes gleam and flicker and search…onward;
Hidden views and painful dues none so curt,
And below the frown, a clown, with a shadow torch made of birch.
Willed–frame expression gave over, to a dreary landscape;
Wonder how I do come back.
Such ill–fated dreams and streams and clover,
I run over and over till ground is black.
Terrace face with a destiny somewhere found,
Pretense that I make or break while I shift –
As built on high, a domed-filled palace sound.
Borders build borders – none suspect I lift.
The rows of tears flow to and fro,
Irrigate and irritate the façade of my mask.
To this moment – dark eyes give a hollow glow,
Formation of rock – it really doesn’t ask.
So teeming with clouds it is a thought,
Phantoms burst out laughter for which is absurd.
To torment is what can soundly be bought,
“Rush away all thee rush away” – never far away they heard.
So I command this realm of mask and dirt,
Graveled and traveled on none spy I suspect -
Patted down and ran aground, as death not so curt,
Slow to wear as none compare quite too direct.
A blood-spun face I give to bear,
To sinewy clutches lost freed up in this mask,
I bear to wear this solemn affair,
Renew the hold – God on my soul – This Is All I Ask.
This is beautiful Jason. 💕