It’s
an orchestra, my Love—even a masquerade, forever the maestros; we search for
keepsakes, and locket friendships, as sound as pictures; oh the blues, a
souldeep cellar, swimming through Sufi surges; the scope of our days, to
channel intimacy, the impulse of breath; where love swarms, akin to fairytales,
and antique trances.
We
pine—living clandestine, to crave the sanctum of love; something public and
absolute, as gratifying as skyscraping; the elegance of queens, the fever of
monsters, the cadence of Jazz; oh the sanctuary, the inner chamber, scratching
and sealing an incomplete feeling; to petition an architect, to crochet the
mourning, to hypnotize presence. If only with grace;—the stems of our
suffering, the joys of our moments!
We
seek an oracle, even agape, skiing
the mystique souls; whereat a sacred afflatus, an inward koan, to pause the
psychic drums—if only but a moment.
Its
telepathy, to hear a whisper, or deeper the Spirit; to feel the tempo—a
universal flux, a gallery of precious moments. We never figured, this slant
towards fey, to consecrate humans; even an inner canon, an inner kingdom, an
ancient brochure; to see for saints and wise souls, singing the treasures of
love—to feel for thunderbolts, and psychic tablets, to live the bittersweet.
We
unfasten, Love—to tremble—a bit untamed; and harness we must—this inner
craving, this inward struggle—as radiant as deep prayer.
