Running off ballerinas, sized upshot, sit on sacred benches that dance,
Informants seize batons and gas lights, unprecedented, unveiled,
expensive art brought into the dripping of heart,
damage only exists in the blurred cornea of salvation.
Perhaps when lives are fed instead of grid in the sand,
tell the people which way to Mandala’s, scriptures of the 108th,
scriptures, all alone, sit on fire frames in galleries, secluded, \
A fifty, that used to be separated from its embitterment,
dirt and fog brings tears to the eyes, feeling discombobulated,
small tear, a mountains saggy fog, friends without judgment,
be love and sing the choirs of your ancestors.
The price is exhumed at the lucky charms dangling from emptiness,
here is the ascension of your past, a return to futures,
slight objectives kneel to the Holy Cross in church,
Saint Theresa and pulling me into deserted souls.
Projection of one’s self, admittedly patient, beyond the sun,
California skies, glowing in the senses of pearls,
small patches of dreams wake the decent at seven-thirty,
waking the innocent path towards the cross.
Patches and cream facade, the longest tracing of sandcastles,
we brought city into waters, where they float and recede,
come forth now, and love the image of your soul and the hard-working man,
come forth on top of the waves, sailing past soiled nectar,
intel accumulated, corporeal waving stances recommending a way out.
There is a counsel of verbiage that helps one on the
days where language is vague, or absent at the very least.
They are there, tethered to their feet, to the floor, helping you to
find the verbiage we long to wait; a long and weary day.
Anna Rozwadowska 2020