There’s
subtlety unto spirit to move for spirit an agitated
flame.
We see it through bleakness a mirror to dangle
midair.
Its flesh of my image buried in harps to grapple
with
winds. I saw for vagueness a godly appearance: a
woman
nursing an infant. There lived such grace, a
mix
of compassion, a psaltery in the background. I heard
for
tunes a texture called existence. The woman smiled
a
mystic air a longing angst a wanton greed to cater. It’s
months
behind for years ahead a day forward through
paradox.
There’s a woman’s world a tender bruise
clearly
saturated with care; and what for love, a papyrus
intended
for cultured eyes. It’s a public secret for voice
to
wail and ever solemn for cryptic veils. I knew for less
a
pond of woes. Life echoed a future of children. I was
there,
unclear, to carve a castle. Something shifts to push
a
fortress where she opens to receive a friend. Why so
sullen—a
repeated world, charged with love? It’s decorated
rain,
ever for presence, combing through bed letters.
