To
feel you—as a pulse-ache—this rapid affection; to dream you—a sudden
appearance—this rapid fever; and never die, the ache of grieving, this village
of dungeons. I lived—this night, gnawing upon diamonds; to see it in passion,
this laughing maniacal—a cave peeking at sanity. The two must mate, shifted
through explosions, this mystery tribe. Indeed the skyscrapes, to yearn that
direction, the love of hysteria; where mothers retreat, to see but a
glimpse—and return that feeling. I knew for us: the pagan’s shadow, to ache the
artwork, a febrile fire. It never could be—the waves of nothingness—confronting our existential; but ever it was, a ceiling
of glass, morphing into a pistol; we shattered this night, crawling through
shards, as busy as bleeding fiberglass. We loved the anger, to pierce the
segments—and this is our life. I fell the daylight, running through tulips,
snatching petals; and there you stood—a woman my brain, clashing with
butterflies. We never thought it, the years of fleeing, climbing an endless
ladder; but how to rest, ever for midair, feeling lethargic? The motion was
joy, convoluted dearly, a chimney of soot; where doves cried, the rain was
purple, and Love adored Love. The seasons morphed, for age to follow, to crave
that first spark; to create the magic, filled with agony, to embark for
ecstasy. Oh to feel you, as a heartbeat—this rapid affection; to scream the
aches—and sudden to vanish—this rapid infusion. It’s so different, to pull at
eagles, to hear your smile. We’ve longed the night-wind, to communicate the
war, to seek out the noonday; and ever the art, this inner lightning, coupled
with portraits; for life is visions, to love like wounds—with such
intensity.
