It’s
taboo to sing oceanic sorrows, staring at painted skies: the feeling of
neophytes.
We
wrestle a listless state, an ancient motif, slicing a green apple. The drums
are
tacit,
to unearth the calm, where sober eyes till a psyche. I think of acquaintances,
and
winsome misery, to picture soaring souls; for this is mercy, a quilted curse,
to
commune
with the Architect; and this is cages, to perish as symbols, alive in a dark
space;
where lowness can be a high, in which a high is torment, a frame to outline
the
wretched. Of course the vase is filled with flowers, to watch the emptiness.
It’s
the
second of moments, to feel atwitter, searching for mnemonic joys; and love is
a
promenade—to give that thing received—a hassle through the clamps. We smile
an
elysian fountain, peering at statuesque poise, attempting to mimic romance;
where
love can see, to confirm the plight, afraid of repetition. It’s rooted in
childhood,
cemented in disease, and grounded in infusions; for the nectar proves as
sour,
camouflaged in genetics, the waves of inward distrust. The form is exhaustion,
to
whisper through zephyrs, to kneel for illumination; where undercurrents thrust
to
break
free, even unto an incandescent state; and thither to an end, a bit without
utterance,
a flame atop the dark light. There’s a mind-cave, to juggle the sadness, to
reappear
suddenly; whereat to pause, to hike the lone canyons, to release the
pressure
and wonder if this is the measure of one’s heartbeat: the ups—the downs.
