*Far, far — go far.*
Was I runnin’ at midnight — or mournin’?
Bright‑red, bright‑eyed —
courage steamin’ in the cold.
Thighs like cherries, vaporous in the frigid dew o’ dawn,
treadin’ the old Southern road.
Must I ascertain my essence —
why exhume the specter of who I was?
There existed an epoch, more august than my present self.
*Far, far — go far.*
Is it midnight — or is it mornin’?
Were there pangs an’ torments in the frost —
yet sinews burn within my attire,
compelled to persist in the February —
the fire.
February —
what bitter degree dares strike my kind?
“It withers ‘fore the scorchin’ pyre — my blade.
Discipline o’ heart, discipline o’ mind —
what line of sentiment have I betrayed?”
*Far, far — go far.*
Did I falter — or did I founder?
Did I stammer — or tremble in fear?
Dare cast reverence ’pon me —
tears fall free from these maid’ned bones.
My Soul — damp an’ sap‑swollen —
greets the flame.
Moisture gathers, a drippin’ — *tsssss* —
fallin’ ’neath its frame.
Tempt builds,
a pressur’n mount’n in soaked grain.
Fire lickin’ wood;
it crackles, spits, and bursts —
sudden, sharp, like gun‑shot —
strivin’ to contain.
Though ringin’ through as though
a great tree riven in its marrow.
Sap and water ’rupt from within,
steam risin’, seethin’ —
veins a‑split’n’, scatterin’
from wounds the fire hath torn.
Steam coils upward, stirrin’ thin,
risin’ —
yet the body still remains,
yet cannot endure —
its heart laid bare in flame,
emotion forc\'n outward under strain.
Pride’ll surely rise when I’m alone —
yet pride shall rise when I’m alone.
What longitude compels breadth and voyage?
What latitude invokes depth and ascent?
Kindlin’ brambles in the dark forest —
*Far, far — go far.*
Smoke risin’ up to a cloudy firmament.
What tribulations haunt your daylight hours
did not perturb me —
’til my road was blocked entire,
and it finally hurt me.
Encircled by afflictions of others,
I murmur: O felicitous, O fortuitous day.
Do you not discern what fortifies me?
You — whether mirthful or morose —
it governs me.
I’d love you all the way.
Do you apprehend my anguish?
Do you perceive how it destroys me?
All that I endeavor
siphons breath from my chest.
In its most unembellished form —
am I perishing?
All that I do…
*Far, far — go far.*
Is it midnight — or is it mornin’?