Fiction Also
Breathes
What
roads have we crossed, fully infused, seated at a piano, to whisper softly to
God. I’ve challenged a windward sensation, slowly disenchanted, wondering why a
soul utters your name; for earth is whining, groaning in agony, lost for tempo,
straying through a meadow. But I dare cry perjury, for we have lied, tied in
knots, flagging down an ambulance; and there we sit, pleading for an IV,
something to remedy a saint’s addiction.
Meet
us in a forest, blazing a trombone, summonsing cherubs, where forever rests
upon shelves of literature. Indeed, I have grown weary of speaking; for words
but increase imbalance, ever to strum strings of silence. I, too, have grown
weary of medicine, faintly flat, grappling with a phantom, if ever to rev a
spiritual engine. What is this apparatus: pulling us froward, a legend of
times, crawling into future gridlocks? Its intuition, promise, plus, a wealth
of restless pacing, gazing at a mirror, breathing Aum.
I
love us not; but I love us so; afraid to witness a countenance engrossed deeply
in joy. This would devastate fantasy and fiction, ever to force to fore a river
of disillusionment. But ever to crush me: I plead: Crush me; for fey is
cruel—to long a lifeless love. So chisel brick, my distant heart; engrave a
phrase: “For Love Has Died”; else a mind, a valley bane; and else a soul to
rive insane.
Little
is said of fiction: ever to wolves, traipsing through fantasy, ever alive
through arts of seduction. Is not it more to see: a shadow turn distant, where
a light is ever to fawn a shadow? I pardon not such a ploy; but I too have
exploited fiction: lost in worlds, ever to compose, but never to relate. What
is such villainess: to grip a fantasy depth a vision, if only to increase a
wealth of radiance; and where I speak not in depth, a mind is tickled pink.
