Are
we dying—while living, to filter through soot? It’s your name,
to
cross a thought, to know for eyes. Its clockwork, even a cypress
tree,
to plague a soul. I’m heart-bound, to see for eyes, but lightyears
away. It’s the music, to burn immortal, a
running country; and
never
our eyes, and ever our souls, to cup dewdrops. Something
stings,
akin to twilight, to muse a picture. Its deep the Godhead, the
strain
of widows, a sour smile. I’m empty—Love, a fragile pulse, to
know
for winter—and sunset tears. I heard
a sigh, to fry the life,
as
golden as fame. Its deep an appetite,
to hear a voice, to mingle
with
minds; for life is gray, to flail a soul, to walk a vestibule. I see
for
unclear, to wander your heart, to hope the best; and what for love,
a
strange stream, sighted as strangers?
We coil to recoil, a pail of
carnage,
a woman distraught; and God heard—a dulcet voice, pleading
a
river. Its art-form, and moments
shunned, to eschew a demon;
plus
a second, to feel nuance, and disappear.
We love afar, streaming
bars,
a musician’s dream…and more to heart, a seraph’s flight, to
feel
a coal. We die the texture, a clouded
lot, to panic for embrace.
I
envy such, a banquet’s outburst, to claim for love; and more
rejection,
and blood and brine, the hearth of death.
