Healing Is a Miracle

in the days leading to the riff, an aged man, looking back on shady behavior—many rules, so capricious, abashed, where the dirt is muddy. in the amusement, one fails to reflect, with negativity planting a grove. but i’ll let go and let live, with a livid disposition; eyes gleaming, Love looking, it becomes sport, sacrifice and rain—to eat a clock, to tick silently, like healing is a miracle; in the days leading to you, each triumph is a challenge, offered to a soul too indebted to see his reflection; the mirror so innocent, so nonchalant, with souls running out of time. too much guilt involved, too much desperation, at the end of the road, we clock out. the heirloom is the agony, the treasure is the first passion, so inside of my understanding. in the days running to skies, flippant like a thirst, measuring others by the marks of my insanity. maybe it’s good over there. maybe vegetables over meats over there. maybe lovemaking is unrelatable. just perhaps, the skis into the tales, the mountain so high, it’s like—it’s not our fault! same old song, same standing in stillness, selfsame shock and diamonds. those lips, to have christened my spirit; those hips to have given birth; in sickness, i felt some type of ownership. in the days i sinned, I confessed, the world keeps spinning—the apology is in the forgiveness.