Windmills Aloft

Why to love it—this mystical body, as tamed as etiquette; or to fly this death, to fumble in particles, to love for mystery; the breadth of her heart, the scope of her fractures, that much closer; to see for frowns, disguised as love—this conflicting feeling. Oh the swan, to dance the rain, as cultured as training. It’s academic, the width of graves, to flee the passions; where thus to perish, to search the outcome, filled with airborne fevers. I love her this heart, to feud with mother, a pair of lost minds; to count the waves, to flex the mountains, a pair reborn; in which to see, but thoughts of actions, to side with the impetuous.     There’s a woman, the deepest concentration, to pierce his eyes; and years apart, to touch a soul, to dig for diamonds.     Is it distance, this forever drain, to tarnish the sinks?     I gander—the hearts of women, to sense such anguish; where life is watching, to turn an eye, as bold as contradiction; and what for pain, the quakes of souls, ever this closer; to feel the furnace, to chime with sulfur, that far to the finish line; where the race continues, to die her gaze, as friendly as diplomats.     Oh the terror, to hold a memory, for times to vanish.     I want it more, to stir the moons, to feel for jolts—the measure of a moment; in which are grains, to haunt the lives—of two that disconnected; but this is life, to carry forever, as mortal as ants.     Was it us, filled with fire, to walk the bridge; where laughs were grief, to finally claim psychotic; for oh the maniacal, that much aloof, to ponder a stranger; where such is flame, to capture the voice, to die a living captive.     I’m loving the maze, to wonder the payoff, that far the rhythm; to see for cuts, an inner dungeon, to paint her pain.

My swan and suns, it was ever this root, to see for fevers; to die to live, and live to die, where mother ponders the repercussions.     I love for us, the body of essence, to fall through rising; where a woman prays, to further encounters, to touch the numen.     Oh the concentration, to go for deeper, that closer the daymare; to shift through weathers, the seasons of galaxies, that far the touchdown.     We’re running, Love—fully exposed, to court the sunshine; and oh for rain, to mold for character, the depth of personality; for it couldn’t be, this private life, to glean so much; where parents watch, in full surprise, and a woman baptizes the unseen; to quake and dance, the chance of fevers, the mind of a swan.     Oh to see it—and now to know, the measure of hearts through minds.     I’ve jumped ahead, if this be life, to see for soaring souls; where mother filters, to chisel contours, to hold the secrets.     I love for us, the night for shade, the shadow for suns; in which for light, the two are one, to counter dualisms.     I want for grain, to finally manifest, to thresh a soul; for mind is bent, as slanted as love, to culture tomorrow.     We couldn’t pause, where some are lax, to know the in-betweens.     It’s deep the nature, the mixture of skins, to conquer the milestones—to friction life.     Oh to see us, the golf of living, to make the point; and love for gray, to paint in colors, the art of intermission; to see for a cygnet, watching the background, to live the royal deaths.     I’m indebted and climbing essence, to know for substance—the ousia; where the three are one, for one are three, to operate dominions; and god heard, to love the heart, to know for precious.