We
love akin to love, three miles shy, a vacuum of love. I
haunt
a grave, to treble graves, three beats shy a grave; and
more
a tomb, to walk with flares, staring at an altar. We
love
akin to love, to pant at brooks, to raise Mestizos.
I think
of
you, to watch for years, to coddle a deep love; but what
for
truths, to see a cycle, choking off folly. I admire such
wit,
a candle in a storm, to flicker gently; and more an ache,
to
cry for love, to ease its pain. It’s felt to be, a nameless
country,
lost for government; and what for God, to call for
God,
and hate for souls? I walk for distance, to love for
grains,
ten sickles abroad; and more to life, a precious swan,
filled
with mixtures. Is it love, to conquer love, a shadow
of
love? A man is dying, where folly dwells, to witness
death!
How to hold hands, a deafly dragon, to value darkness;
and
not a sin, to court for light, staring at a juror; and yes a
sin,
to cut a soul, to thwart a dove. Was it mercy, a cello of
years,
where I pushed forward? Is this for grief, where I
perish
softly, greeted in fevers? I ask, somewhat aloof,
pausing for creeks.
