Your Querencia and Why Your Not Quitting

Could you imagine, A face like that? Created by the face of an angel And modeled like fashion For the damned and deceased. A respected locksmith, Drunk on insomnia and aging, Kissing the pavement With bare and busied feet. The Brazilian beauty Who prides herself as The representative of blushing. The one who catches the bouquet By chance and Throws it away before anyone notices. But on a theory in a slip of time, Before the extinct proposition And an oddly proportioned new born, Curls a quivering life form In the belly of this woman so sweet. Born from innocence and named Mary, For the sake of Jesus. She is not 36 nor is she 16 Yet she is at the fruitful age of 57. And at 57, This symbol of love and innocence Is fumbling with the curiosity Of breast feeding her unborn child That wiggles and withers with frailty Inside of her. Dark wood, Unimaginable line, Where could you have gone When the pages were as blank as the faces And for the life of you, You couldn't tell the difference. Just say it. Rip it from the tip of your tongue. Show your taste buds no mercy and speak. Grow. Expand. Consider the possibilities when It appears there are none. Enjoy the pain And embrace all oppressions and oppositions. Slumber in the smutty bluntness Of a marital masquerade. Quit it Then keep it going. Move the stones And bend their broken subtractions. Crack the indescribable aptitude Of times motive for murder. Explicate reason, Smoke your lungs away, Cry your eyes out, And suck at the wastelands.