of pathos, i play my bruises only to the whistles of
my own familiarity. i, an oracle cast.
and divination;
FUNERAL before my eyes, i scrabble until FUR;
until a LEAN of clothing appears for the nakedness of my soul.
i open a chapter in my head. i collect the names
of dead dreams: the ones who wore out in nascent cloaks.
without a perfect funeral. without remembrance.
the ones who fell with my shoes when heights
quaked under my feeble feet.
i call it genesis.
funeral before my eyes; i see flowers. i sing faith.
and smell fragrance from funk— blood. congealed and
coloured into dark wine by the kiss of scavengers
and poison of time. i borrow music. i split dead
memoirs and pick fine moments into lively clefs.
i am certain. by novel hope. i can still a smile
for lamentations. i hood a prayer; a meditation
mutters into my mouth. i loose.
a stranger, riotous,
like a repressed sea, is rushing to fuel the beginning of the
fire in my body.
