Light
illuminates love; to fathom darkness, to discern for natures. We love the swan, as calm as lizards, as
swift as wands. Our love is thunder,
pregnant with admiration, as fanwise as windmills. We live so seldom, enlove with seldom,
with contrite souls. We fathom
nature, a twofold reality, warm with sensations. Has she courted darkness, to mingle with
light, an attempt to be, Yahweh? I ask—sighted dearly, a noetic slant; where
stars are dreams, stationed in space, for invisible pillars; in which to float,
the very nature, screaming for earth.
We flurry Neptune,
to
flame through
Venus,
as
alive as arcane visions; for this is width, the breadth of sadness, as argent
as swords. I feel you more, where
something fractured, to rebirth in pureness.
You reckon me mean; even an arrant fool, as vague as azure; but this was
love, for solemn vowels, where hell shattered ambitions; and now for death, our
sorest potion—and lying in stillness; where chants erupt, to fashion fevers, a
gift to a friend; but know for joy, to stand the light, where mothers breathe;
for this is turf, a woman’s heart, sprinkled with fertilizer. Have you not heard,—of a woman’s power,—a
medieval mystery? Its love and death,
for a capstone Bard, as chic as literature; and still for styles, to pave
cobblestones, sipping a claret wine; where tears trickle, to blemish ink, as
coquette as happiness. We love this,
to love for that, as attached as winds; and who for we, but inner chambers, a
woman’s voice, ever to alternate?
