where
to find this mercy, this joy bottled in grief, to see her and shed a lung: to
hear for darkness, the innocence of eyes, buried in flux. we take for diamonds,
the heist of his soul, painted as mirrors; where communion is arts and fevers,
and heartcaves and falcons, surging throughout a mindfurnace. i thought to persuade her, this inward
woman, tussling with afflictions; to see for legends, the death of deaths,
pictured in the life of lives. we
know for another, an inward man, to peer at a delicate swan; to hear the purple
flame, a volt through a century, to strike at reincarnation. it’s ever the sentiments, to draw forth a
tear, to hold it for the right moment: to see her countenance, filled with
sullen joy, as it churns and tugs consciousness; for this is deepest love, a
love through us all, to pay closer attention; in which is mercy, that very
thing, found in the pond of souls. i
thought to persuade her, where insanity sings folly, falling for scraping and
sprawling; where souls peek at awareness, to read through stanzas, swimming and
trekking through swamps; in which are blemishes, called social scars, confined
to this journey. it was ever a flame,
to spark an inner station, to push forward a beige force; where sadness is
wisdom, and hatred is misery, cringing as an unknown scholar. oh the measures, to sculpt a mindcave, at
the mercy of discernment; to ferry this pressure, where it rises, a butterfly
upon an eyelash. could it live—this
miracle sight, the gesture of a windmind?
i ask—adrift a skeleton, surfing for flesh; in which the nights—perform
as ghosts, pitching at frontal lobes; the days of eagles, seldom but seen, a
fire beneath the sea, an amazing cross.
