Strife

There isn't money involved, whatsoever.

I claim to know what happens
when you laugh in between overdone jokes,
when strings and strings softly develop(golden ones)rising up and shooting rapidly

when affected by rain or gloomy weather, touching ice or cracking wood.
when poetry smells the same again, and you're being reminded of metal, bodily wires of carnage
that maybe rip on top,
and they long and crawl beneath pores of self-pity.

when unfriendly teeth meet the eye,
and eyes unfold, bowing.

folks assume, baaaad.

skin is not closed still but the roots bring up the truth that opens earth
and land, stirs.

With discretion

quite.


behind masks, of future.
or backwards over the sea, where the core is at.

silver.


Death comes with winter, and turns where the corner offers battered feathers of vultures.
Why, instead, don't you land far from here
where the raw meat thrives in pleasure

We don't deserve this.

They do.



Maybe it's selfish of me,
Or maybe I haven't figured out people yet.

I do not know the answers either.
May that be a statement.