The
interior—even a soul, to dictate actions; where beige is life, to utter gestures, to scream at walls; in which for tender, a bleeding scar, centered
upon a brain. I blocked a doorway, to scrub a feeling, to finally shiver the
nights. We sprout like weeds, a bit unfastened, to steer a miracle. I fancy the
apples of love, the sugar of breads, the fruits of apologies; but what for
stubborn, to thrust his soul,
to
ask for death? I mourn the berries, alive this venue, to pet the cobra; whereat
is guile, the width of vineyards, to meditate literature—and know for
seduction, to disdain the lost, to play the phantom. Oh the moons, to shift the
feelings, to love but one night—to mock the breath, this rift of winds, to
perish
far the valleys. I cried the dragon lights, to pierce the dragon fruits, as
animated as cartoons. Oh the secrets, to watch for movies, a pattern of
activity; and there for death, is there for life, the hue of our transgressions;
where lines fail, to court a human, this lightfast liaison. We crawl, the value
of flowers, to tour the coming attractions.
Was
it necessary, to witness destruction, to find for peace? I ask at unawares, to
knit a scarlet quilt, to judge for nothing; and this is magic, the judged
without judgment, plucking an aster; where a swan shivers, to see for absurd,
to filter excuses; and plus for rain, a tulip in a bottle, to blossom and
wither. Its alpine scars, a begonia in the shade, to struggle for light; where
grays are matrimony, to play intelligence, with a brazenfaced lie.
