RMC

Beneath the Scot-Irish spring is deep
a gas whose aftermath is wrath
that goes to my bone people don’t own
my direction or path.

I’ll be servile to compile awhile denial
will serve me at sea when beneath
the grief will survive awhile;
love is all you need.

I’ve been told by a ghost I most
deserve not the best the world offers
though when it comes to toast
the Church there were heavy coffers.

Prayed a year closed under God,
filled with kids from another school was odd,
but light lit me to see
that we all suffer the rod.

Future was a word I shared I prepared
my prayer with haste no word did I waste.
I could now but Im not here to erase
just displace with mace the red my eyes trace.

Passion is beauty grounded not flounder
does some triumphant grandeur
sun come through in the sky louder,
with purple blue azure.

Tell me this grave grave I stay away
everyday and escape pain as I should.
Well rather release an expression to say
I want to live like I could.

But the sky is not beautiful
everyday so say the slay then weigh
whether you want to be truthful
to sway your weak mind today.

You know what you believe
blue personality I am rationale,
a realist you will feel this
split with a kick of a cocktail.

To relax the synapse that snapped
caused a little vision keep an incision
on my left foot to hobble crack
my attack that which pursues vision.

I see the the trees we breathe
and I need to relax
before these old wounds deep
give me a heart attack.