To
die for your glory, as to perish to madness, a terror of planets.
We
symbol much, in torn dimensions, our nature’s abyss.
We
awaken death for opera, and melodramatic, a father’s theater.
I
scold you forevermore, semi-fraught with timber, ever to carry
your
soul; and what earth exposure—a desolate gland, greeted
with
seething palms.
Eyesight
a sullen nectar, the richest touch, to convulse a
nightmare.
I spin for contrast, afraid to speak your name, where
words
flood livers. We’re agog with mirrors, carving settees, fallin’
to
shore. It sailed for panic for smoke flicking ashes. You
uttered
for rhythms, our language for bodies, where souls
squander
madness. I wander speech adorned in verbs to zoom alive.
Its
terror your actions flitting through whirlpools to kiss insignia.
We
perish planets, to slant a sphere, washed in love bites. I’m
ever
your wings, to flourish your stitches, suspended in prose.
What
for giving—even a dowry—a name for identity?—for such
this
wealth, the spoils of war, to trek an equator. I give you twist
for
turns and tests for storms to tease out a moment’s doubt; and
we need forever such
tendons of love where hearts claim madness.
