We’re
breathing one breath, aspark the flame, to ask: “Are you heartless, Love?” I
disappear, thrusting through sentient eyes, nailing gravity; to drift the opera,
to grab the phantom, to hear the songbird. Oh the years, to see her face, as
fulgent as heartsores; in which to die—for life to give bones, the call of
Ezekiel; torn for passions, to perform as whetstones—the splendor of her
gestures. Its crimson tears—from saintly eyes, a gemstone as pain; where issues
froze, for dreamlike angst, to mesh through resistance. I drift dimensions, to
stargaze heaven, to discern the failings. We fall the spark, to maintain
distance, if only a smile. Oh for discernment, the seismic voice, the color of
her aura; to flux the fireball, the neighbor’s koan, as feral as florid; the
nectar of kernels, the ember of prose, to sit for debates. I know of pain, and
plus the presence—of something spectacular; for art the lance, a romantic
grain, to scribble thunder; to know for secrets, the essence of treasures, the
measure of woes; for never the flight, to watch a lifetime, streaming through
fissions; where perfect is this, to surf a phrase, to grow and perish. Its
subliminal scars, to wonder of ifs, to
know for mystic; and can’t explain—the days of silence, to picture as
mavericks; where something shifted, the deep unsung, the tempest of rain.
Are you heartless, Love; Am I broken,
Love?
I
ask, to feel for rotten, to scream the potent; and serpent love, to morph suddenly—the
planets of never; where passion
spoke, the volume of tension, to meet a response—the angst of silence.
We snowball normal, this welkin ambition, a
sermon to stick to membranes!
