Oh
the breeze, combing through mane, the symbols of music. We piano through grays;
and so subliminal, to climb through voltage: as cavalier as poets, as artistic
as nuns, to simmer through raptures. We speak in tongues, to translate Spirit,
to grip a palm of ashes. I love us like danger, the fierceness of womanhood,
the melting of icebergs. We maze the trauma, sketched in staccato, the harshest
love; and something digs, the deepest question: Whether to possess or to want?
Of which is joy, for both are pride, musing the dreams; where pain attracts, to
finally say it, to want to protect; and what for this, the signs of Alcatraz, a
ship steady to sail. Oh for Rembrandt, and more Picasso, to learn from Vaughn
Gogh: the terrible trials, to tiptoe justice, a jury for jettison. We live as
strangers, as close as priests, ever for incantation. I cry and mourn, to see
for styles, the station of suffering; where days are joys, to sip upon life, as
gone as privacy; and ever they tell, to see it through traffic, a tad bit
different. Its charisma, a flaming heart, to leap at random; and what’s the
ransom, my bright-eyed dream, to ever this surface; where depth is life, the
lack thereof, stressing through mindcaves. The scene is colors, such brilliant colors,
as tragic as Shakespeare; in which is life, such exhilaration, to crave its
absence; and spirits hear, to tug the music, aflame a nightmare; where mares
perish, ever to live, as close as confidence. Oh the mystery: to love a riddle,
to gain an issue, that torn for running. There’s a private life, the privy of
few, confined to patience. We wail the darkness, to want the light, streaming
through mindflames; and something died, to see the contour, a bit for
disappointed; where love shrugged, to disappear, to whistle through the
zephyrs; and still the passion, scratching and screaming, to tug upon roots;
where love appears, to rant and rave, to question the sequence. I’m more alive
this year, speaking a dream-sense, that knitted to pain; in which are fliers,
to filter a soul, founded in fevers; so more to love, to grapple with prose, to
pull us outward.
