I
love the portico, even the prow, to share the helm. We love
so
blindly, to know it’s you, a fantast of dreams. The moon
has
quaked, to shift perception, a soul to quake. I think of
Augustine,
a sea to quiver, a carpet to travel; and there you are,
a
broken ideal, the flesh of my love. I
fault you not, the
watch
of priests, to hear our opera. We die
for love, to
hamper
hurt, to know it lives; for every stitch, the seam of passion,
to
trickle through tendons. We’re born
alive, to die in segments,
to
sprinkle ash; and God hears, where souls are deaf, a bit
judgmental;
for more an ideal, the wildest yoke, as mystique as
promise;
but more for love, to know for never, to maintain love;
for
there’s a wraith, even Olivia, to see for portraits. I die your
voice,
to climb your ladder, to play your harp; where tempos shatter,
a
brochure of woes, a swinging dreamcatcher; for earth is bland, to
want
for more, for stationed at a red light.
How your heart, to
read
a lexicon, to renew the greats? I ask—filled with gray, to want
Calypso;
in which is madness, to live for juggled, a kiss worthy of
love;
whereat is motion, a subtle poison, to give for life. I hear
you
living, forever dying, crying through repentance. I give you
freedom, a dynasty
grand, to gird myself in distance.
