Poethearts

I’m whelmed—through poethearts, ever that closer—to dine with ghosts, a table filled with humans, a blacktie affair; in which the precious beauty, a candle to a psyche, to clear out the webs—to unlock adventure; we dance this way, to know it gets like that—the honor of mystery; and why for mother, to grieve her death, as beautiful as chaos; to see us chasing, the far away kites, to grip a string; and oh the heartrealm, the rills of majesty, an inward manifestation. I hear you, Love—the poetess afar, skipping gravel—for brighter days, to judge all things, ever in the Spirit; for this is love, and God is Spirit, to teach all things. They laughed the début—to see for culture, a mystic running—for chasing winds, to clench a palm, to nudge the Ghost. We love with grace, to give with kindness, to travel the sphere of intuition; and ever the aphorisms, famished for great arts—the choir of poethearts; to sing the blues, the cadence of old folks, swimming through groans; we live it this way, the circuit of souls, screaming in private; and ever silent, to impassion ghosts, to waft through stillness; for this is love, to give it boldly, the life of a billion saints.     

I’m whelmed—through poethearts, ever that further;—to pull and tug, surfing the godself, enchanted by beings: the wealth of words, the rivers of anguish, the joys of giving; oh to see us, a room of antiques, sketching a mystic embrace; the fervor of love, the chakra of souls, an apocalyptic grudge; indeed the sinners, to know the secrets, the very segue—to journey the Dark Night, to stream the great reward, the womb of existence; oh the touch, of existential sadness, unshod and grinding; to terrify mirrors, to sip the chalice, a letter of pictures.