The
eyes are immortal—to climb this volume, to reach Wisdom’s peak; I cry the
justice, founded in karma, the stretch of tornadoes; where love is fevers, to
shift for stillness, the greatness of a kiss. I panic to perish, the grout of
life, an orphic journey; the sketch of sorrow, the zest of heartache, the zeal
of living.
Oh
the arc, an electric art, the keel of his
being;
to
flee disaster, this florid nature, as lucent as consciousness; the deep
turmoil, the gravid flames, to wrestle reality; for oh the streams, the chaotic
screams; to rise at 3a.m.; whereat to ponder, the rills of souls, the inner
flares; in which are tears, and russet moons, and mystic smaze; the smoke of
love, the life of doves, the sand and mud.
We
live with purpose, a telic design, the hertz of inner drumbeats; to flourish a
welkin star, even an inward afflatus; where pictures breed, the bruise and
scar, as rapt as grackles.
We
croon to fly, ablaze in spirit, to live the epochs; in which an imp, a product
of mind, casts a cinema; to fail or float, the crypt of arts, to flit the
plights.
