An Elucidation of Your Soul’s Restlessness

Hear me this: I want to read books
about things that matter things that splinter shatter and crack things that make this earthly life
rich and terrible. I want to write poems
that fearful tearful girls whisper to themselves over and over again between breaths waiting out
the familiar panic attack. I want to sing songs

that bring old men to tears that remind them of home 87 years gone and the feeling of loving
when love was young. I want to speak words
that keep broken promises that save fragile lives that renew a little boy’s belief
in human beings as kind. I want to see signs
that make mountains small that make rivers irrelevant that make sensation an epiphany
a candle in the rain. I want to build stories

about contradictory truths about colors unnamed about textures in time about heroes
unrolled and unraveled. I want to believe crimes
are just human anguish just compulsory strokes just chrysalis shards falling away
before the new wings. I want to know loves
that crumple diamonds that collapse death that hammer anomalies in until breath
says enough. I want to cry flowers

to hone powers to smile sunsets to feel psithurisms and walk vagaries through forests
unafraid. Hear me this:
I want to mean something


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