I
feel it, ever to live it, to filter a young swan. I’m wailing
Abba, to sit abed—a
life of acid. I drift—for gazing, reading
through
poems. She cries a dream, to riddle the ante,
warm
and hurting. I fall, and bolt a heart, to pray a young
dove;
and mother fears, the mark of chains, heavy in flux.
We
feel it damply, to camp a shelter, and envy love. I’m
here,
an empty full, to blend a forest; and
I see, a Buddhist
nun,
conversing psychology. Was it wrong, to goad a
mystic,
a touch of maya? We want for easy, to
strip for
nights,
a morning weary. I love it—for gray, and why for
not?
The days were lonely. The nights were fey; and
breath
an inlet of woes. I filter a gulf, and something
between,
to climb a mansion. I see for jimpies, aiming low,
a
form of spirit. How was it, to sip and laugh, where life
was
spinning? I ask to vanish, to flail a soul, quaffing
spirit.
Smaze is brewing, to mine a cave, staring for Pyxis.
I
hear it, the gore of life, adrift a blackdamp; and more to
love,
ever a challenge, to fathom Cain.
