I
think of you like religion.
We
twist through knots, this gnosis slant, a bit epicurean; where God heard, to
fall your heart, the struggle of resistance; to see it glowing, for speaking in
tongues, to want for freedom. I died in you, to see the life—that more
abandoned—to thirsty deserts, the watchful cactus, plus the tumbleweed. I saw
for pagans, the rites of giants, to blend a culture; to see it perish, the beat
of hearts, to hear the bleating; where mother cried, to want revenge, afraid of
losing. It’s more religion, to grieve through storms, as warm as icicles; and
such the paradox, churning through centuries, reading Sinclair. Oh the texture,
to drift through trauma, to ponder a daughter; to see escapes, as brief as
eating, that much the detrimental; in which is passion, the clashing of weeds,
to feature the first wind; for more the cygnet, to drain you not—that closer
the universe; whereat is living, the very therefore, to holler—“Nevertheless”;
and God heard, to court a swan, the length of his knowledge. I died in you, to grow through you, to offer such
apologies. The nights are green, searching for wisdom, and sitting in
vibrations; and what the heart, the Spirit’s telephone, chiming with a psych;
where love dwells, to see the best, to give a lung; whereby the flights, to
agitate souls, as gold as endurance. I move forward, to hug a wave, to know for
swans: the grief, trauma, and skepticism. You must remember: the early morning
angst, to come so far, to love without touch. It’s amazing truly, the volume
and scope, to ask the baby’s mother; where for love the partial, the dying of
bright-eyes, to cleave to the Lord’s shoulder.
