I
feel for a nameless country, to sail deserts, a city of wounds.
I
cry to silence, to plead a voice, as frantic as pregnancy. The
tides
are brilliant, a fleet of wings, to grip for passions. What
a
mind, shadowed in darkness, beaming glory. It’s ever pain,
a
map of scars, to void our joy; and thus for deeper, to feel for
bliss,
a kiss a mile upstream. I reckon nightfall, a half-bodied
ghost,
to enter a soul; and what for Mars, a tear misheld, to
form
a monster. So speak for dreams, a swan’s song, grieving
where
they smiled; for all is panic, a bleeding youth, sipping
top
vodka; for times are stoned, to ooze for pressure, an inch
towards
kef. Indeed a nightmare, clouded with gems, to pinch
a
breath of knowledge. I see her screaming, despite the facts,
appeased
dearly. Its total joy, accounted for nothing, to blaze a
fount.
We live it torn, to faint and fawn, pitching marbles. I see
it
greyly, if just to live, steeped in chants; and more to prayer,
to
feel a soul, dressed in wounds; but life is this, to fret and
wink,
where all is secret. I love it more, to circle caves, and
three
flames closer. Imagine hell, despite the cakes, to know for
rain.
Oh to perish, and oh to live, laughing and lying.
