Delilah’s
spirit; oh Delilah’s spirit. It was so clandestine;
where
I uttered not a word; but heaven glistens—to anger
would
be friends. It’s ever evanescent, probing to destroy.
It’s
not for me, but closet intentions, to agitate psychic
webs.
So
hypnotic, ever to hide, searching for a camera. We
serenade
suppression, and monitor nothing. A model has
flourished;
such a crooked model; but what of love, a fever
in
the meadows, filled with mystique? I ask, uninterested,
peering
demons.
Arise,
my anguish, and float freely, a circuit in mourning.
Such
an afflatus, loathing my soul, searching for power.
What
amore—to give more, rapacious for Spirit, and more
amore.
Something died, fully frenzied, where art ensued.
What
to live—a soul torn—yearning forever.
I
die and rise, indelible ink, skiing in a psyche—my very
own.
So
much to tell, probing affections, waist high in
afflictions;
for I mourn a field of frictions, striking roots,
probing
my soul. What to give, and what to find, denying
me
my rights? I ask, aware of deafness, for guile is not
love,
and life is painted fey. A surgeon of spells mocks a
gate,
attacking utopias. I sigh and move, maneuvering
through traffic,
studying the wealthiest sins.
