Dharma.
The scant remains of blood
On an ashtray by the turnpike warns
Of trailing crests of June:
That bride wants some.
The holding fluff of heathen stir
Had tried to claw the meager silt
Through what defines a tragic build
Of heightening-less suspense.
I must search for you, I must.
The gravity of things had changed us, thus, I
Must search for this, I must
Have the tryst in vain aside.
There is rhythm on the highlands
And flowers in the sky,
If you can’t accept, I’ll try.
By the sword of the word,
There fishes feast,
If you can’t accept,
I’ll try.
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