Kneading Travesty

My wave, Anita Baker: my art, Faith Taylor; and still, such
Angst. I wonder such words: “Are you alright.” I cringe.
It’s a verbal assault; and so slanted. Why not muse the
Silence; and certainly, I speak bias: the bias of pain; but
Dead air—to state the obvious. Why not a bold gesture:
“Let’s fly a kite: let’s paint a picture.” Shucks: “let’s draw
A maze”: “I bet I can out race you.” Whatever the color:
Make it colorful; else, sit in silence; and wait the storm.

I do apologize, my sweetest thorn; for we have dined such
History; and we have wailed such mercy; and such our love,
A cave of diamonds; and thus, our wings, the streams of
Summer; but grow, we must; and live, we must. Indeed,
Leafs are falling, seasons change; and we sit, brooding a
Nightmare; and we sigh, kneading a travesty.