John Charley
re-conditioned
sphere
everything we've been
in vast of field and back to
where-
perfect round wanted, is just
not.
which by all that, the mind
would stand and look back
on tears of that object
activity;
unremorseful.
and see ourselves as our
fathers,
as our mothers, accomplice in
it
to where with stones in hand,
and eyes red in fire's arm;
we'd committ things, things
that
nobody exempts by reading our
lips.
but more at least could've
been more
and hope that everything was
ours;
undivided
and nothing is left for them
and daily they would cry,
crying
trampled down, on our biggest
feet;
favourite music on reprieve,
deliberate-priority that
wouldn't give.
least within, we'd think and
bleed-
that they exhaust of fragrant
breath
and spit where their mind
speaks,
when the least-kind remains,
mystery, like everything in
every mind;
unresolved.
and everywhere despite, what
carries
sides from each, death would
kill to killer
and wake up only when it
comes
surprised within, of what
suprise awaits;
everything, something is this
blindness.
©️ john charley
