Dear
for God; and ever to want her, a bit space-shy. I feel for welter, that’s turmoil, a siren
in a forest. I watch her naked, a
pristine jewel, to bless the soul.
The nights are moonstruck, to feel for pain, and jotting lines; where
death is sweet, to walk the day, a bit confused. We held records, and do not calls, even a
broken email; for this is silver, to yearn for gold, even a woman’s womb; and
life be green, a henna scar, to grog a falcon. I heard for rain, to swoop for comfort,
the grit of lions. We died to live,
as low as pebbles, as wet as sediments; for this is love, even for poetry, as
gracile as beauty; and not for size, for women rule, to usher a president.
This is passion, to love like breath, to
glean from salvaged; and god fled, to comfort self, through a genteel
woman. I watched her, spinning for
calm, to give a lecture; and space be gone, to like and lust, a living jewel;
for this is havoc, a febrile passion, as hectic as, “good morning.” Can they feel it, a subtle burn, churning
a nightmare? I know for earnest, the
dint of love, where neither can; for this is life, even a daymare, to hold a
pail of air. Nary a soul—fathoms this
love, and ever afraid! I called a priest,
to speak of rain, and heaven beckoned.
She spoke of death, the constant number,
driven to exile; and tension built, the deepest want, to tell her for love; but
silence rules, a cult of sadness, the extent of pressure; where god stood, ere
a goddess, to claim for coward; and love died, a church of hells, a woman to
lust; for this is heart, a pillow for a dungeon, a window for a youngster. Its quantum leaps, for legend gripes, to
push past climax; and a goddess knew, to still approach, and sort the madness. This is myth, and living live, a piece of
passion; where art is law, and law is dirge, a longing song.
