This
ascetic love—filled with don’ts—and cannot ventures! Oh this force, flooded with demagogues,
claiming prescient rills. I come to
you shattered, to heal in segments, a product of mothers; in which are
graphs—engrafted upon brains—to seek for therapists; and no one questions, a
thriving outcast, to feign cheerfulness.
We will the valleys, to feel for fain, to please for strangers; and oh
the scars, creeping the surface, a meal for keen eyes. I portrait a swan, to know a future,
where—“All is perfect”: and partly to fault—the savage trail, to mimic adults;
and cry my night—bruised and agile—speaking of love. I died a youngster, to carry a contour,
embroiled in this conflict; where right are theirs, and wrong are mines, a gift
for a fallen angel; in which is madness, to await the capes, a myth called
superman. I drift a soul, to scar a
lady, and claiming father. It’s quite dramatic, to see it blossom, a cold
pathology; where pain is love—and love is tears, to proclaim a nightmare; and
more to perfect, to live spotless, and—“Never our fault.” I’m growing numb, to see it—my life,
abandoned to the dregs. It’s quite emphatic—to play it pertly, an inner
metaphysics; where demons cry, and mothers flee, broken for this game; and
people watch, and nurture illness, to feel at home. I’ll confess it: “I’m a bit torn,
searching for closure”; and now for turns, to drug it not, a fury of
philosophers. I’m back to love—a
priceless swan, maneuvering through magic: a bit sequacious, mourning the
moonlight hours; but more to gifts, to flood a conscious, a source of comfort;
and all for what—the sight of game, as impudent as destruction; where more to
live, as free as clouds, raining upon art.
