Beauty as Spell

The fire of beauty—as exquisite as feelings, this inner diamond; and dye this pain, in burgundy lemons, as refined as an unborn kiss. I touched eyes a gaze. I awoke a demon. The hells paused. It’s the flame of loins—the mixture of thoughts—and gravity as delusions; to float forever, as present as esoteria, a trestle near hysteria. I fell in love, to fall apart, an engine to rev dry. I wet a nib, as sheer insanity, your blood flowing as ink. It was ever your eyes, and goddess brows, and high cheek bones, and exquisite fingers, and peach fuzz lips. I sought a muse, to find a friend, in a world of illusions; and never a jostle, this crime of fools, to perish Ecclesiastes. I loved an instance—of something found sleeping, a mirror in a basement; to thresh a soul, to scroll a queen, that further the midnight bats; where love broke motives, to investigate souls, the tracks of fantasies. I see you—spinning pearls, and tiptoeing the twilight—that inner kingdom, a mansion within a castle, a web upon a membrane. It’s the fire of beauty, as exquisite as intellect, the House of Cards—and women sip, and women rule, and women carry kingdoms. How to forget it—this ankle of tears, chased in gold, pierced through by crosses; and how to forget it—this tiny wrist, the dictates of ink, twirling in secrecy; and more the beauty, to chastise desire, to push passed morals’ abyss; and die the gray, to remember a dress, as in-between as beige: the sandy browns, the pale whites, as tan as distant deserts; and god loves—this miracle dove, a bit unaware—of the fiery depth, sinking into prayer, forecasting a sudden volt—or more an arc, an electrical current, or more a heart-quake.        

Chisel Our Years

My dearest Intuition: oh let us fly, as fever and vein, forever that grace, the pace of our future selves; let the sun rain colors, as warm as summer skies, as bold as a woman’s love.

            My dearest Faith: oh let the tides shift, that closer the abyss, to float in cryptic joys; and Father this land, as torn as rising riches, as clothed as naked communes; to see for moons, the texture of stars, as restless as the unborn.

We die the patience, that purple galaxy, refusing our entrance; but raise this flag, and claim this land, as bestial as necessary—and oh for bellicose, the war of his nature, to nurture such a flower; and prune her soul, to encourage her growth, the wealth of her mirrors.

            I’m hearing ghosts, to measure a trope; and seeing ghosts, to pleasure illusions.

            It’s ever your face, to puncture my heart, as grave as the callings of forever; in which is love, the grand to perish, kneeling at an armoire; to see for Father, to utter tongues, to favor your presence.

            Oh the slightest shifts, to reason within, the Zen of therapy.

The years have mourned, to know your strengths, as vocal as silent waves; to crash this land, a kettle upon flame, the cries of midnight noon; and briers gather, to feel your heart, as deep as inflection; to course this love, the pulse of grains, a seed into the future; and there you are, the vex of woes, to battle dejection; but what to give, a claw to a splinter, enlove with rays?   

Gothic House

I die that I may live, that I may live this crucial death—the rising of hearts, the arts of infusion, that closer the epiphanies. It was darkened, and ever a stranger, to walk as she watched, to probe a mind, to filter intuition, to watch with a gaze. Our daughter as jubilant as days, to refuse the fear, as playful as toddlers; I couldn’t but be, the maker of this model, and slowly haunted; where the house is grim, as gothic as ages, the likes of this turmoil. Oh to live, and say for much, the touch of energies; and live this life, the wake of intellect, to uproot the graves. I’ve come to her, to hear for answers, the millennia as distance; to perish thrice, each for an entity, to wrestle with strangers. Oh for glory, to push for power, a guru as spectator; where thoughts are calm, to morph chaotically, to return to calm. We find to love it, as bold as secrets, to refuse securities; and love dwells—the depth of psyches—as foreign as the Spirit’s kiss. I heard this woman, through the net of dreams, crying of the future’s dreams. We chimed for moments, to awaken in sweat, as torn as cotton…to ache her soul, where mine’s is bleeding, at ease with the unliving; and yet it lives—the pressures of prophecy, the ghouls of wounds, as perfect as an inner image; to sweep the planks, a whale to a ship—this internal war; and cry the highs, to relish the woes, as struck as gongs. We feel to measure, the strength of feelings, to recount our calculations; where this is life, that aching pulsation, to give a lung; if only for freedom, to finally break free—of this inner dream; and die this harp, insync the piano, to read her visions.         

Love

We know for parts, the love of love, semi-distorted; to filter this life, as wife and husband, to journey the monsoon. You took me broken and stumbling and fairing for composure; to die my plight, to suture my wounds, that desperate to love me. We feel such love, grounded in faith, the measure of, It Couldn’t Be; to chime and dance that magic carpet and flooded with pills. I warm this love, that inner whirling, as vulnerable as newborns; for the sheer affect, to climb through pictures, enlove with said parts. We find for days, the matter of grays, as tangible as a heartbeat; with skipping time, to swarm a pendulum, a manikin come alive; and I loved a myth, as potent as inner wise, that further to the horizon. It’s more the mystery, to secern thoughts, as confused as a single mother; where hell is favor, a deep infusion, for otherwise is unknown; and spread for wings, the eyes of a child, to give what’s lacking: the torn wisdom; the ache of love; the watch of mishaps; and this is love—to perish her breath, and pursue forwardly. I know a love, a partial stranger, and sorely aware of my mind. How for this thought, to read for years, and gain understanding; to be like friends, and love so purely, to die each infraction? If only to remember, the faceless shores, racing through the islands; where love is life, despite the demarcations, to channel the evening doves; for this is love—a blessing to carry, to marry this fraction of perception; and this is love, to greet a stranger, with a familiar essence; and this is love, to perish so often, as grounded as steel, sorting through the particles; where this is love, to touch a soft cry, and die the confusion. It mustn’t be, this fatal love, to perish with such a friend.     

But a Fraction of Heart-tales

We touch gravel in Spirit, the breath of a hearthole craving, to see this death, the width of life, where a seed must perish. His face shall change—the girth of whirlwinds, a pebble in the rivers; where tides blend, a reckless churn, the terns of infinity. I died this love, and that unaware, to lose eternity; and cried that wake, piercing into graves, the bones of his skeleton; wherefore is magic, the graphic heartbeat, to rattle the cages. I feel her—the measure of sifting through wines, the challenge of our days; to pull the concrete, and drill for motion, an art taken for granted. It was tears insanely, to approach the well-less, where the trench was flooded, and thus I ask for pardons, for flagrant infractions, where love was misappropriated; and dance these skies, the inverted clouds, a cherubim soaring; to fraction life, the width of her groans, and moaning in agony; but how to touch, a brimming dam, that closer to fortifying destruction? Was it a moment, to lengthen days, where gray became black and white?—for I knew an addict, with deep aversion, to cherish her very breath; and I knew a woman, the likes of mother, to crave her very soul; where the nights were burdened, and the pains were special, to usher a wealth of pressures; for love was torn, a miscalculation, an aberrant of affairs; to surf the desert, while standing in stillness, the measure of warm hearts. We love in kind, our mirrors' reflection, to stumble about the forest; and why for us, the count of leaves, to travel each vein? I give us life—the angst of love, twelve years nigh perfection; to sit is anguish, that close to bliss, this pulling of souls; and weave this art, the heart to wheeze, the breeze of her gaze.       

Bodiless Wingspan

I can only imagine the rift of souls as saturated as stems; and I see visions the touch of vines to stir this mind. How to cherish the absence—this sky-born hurt the value of Scriptures? We live as phantoms, to treasure the measures, flooded with volts; and this for love, this internal growth the broth of Spirit.     Was it us—this flaming fire and subconscious echoes; to rise in death, to snatch the sting, a song to a cloud? I wrestle demons, that attack the mind, as held as unfit—for a world that’s perfect, to hear profanity, the plight of pretend. I could never that light, to scream rebukes, puking from fevers. Was it life—to churn the souls, to pound the mirrors; where trouble wails, to plague the conscience, a woman upon pavement? I ask the sightless, to jog the mind, for death is nearby; whereat is pressure, to grip the scalp and tug clumps of hair; to finally breathe, the act of acting out, a second of breaking free. I imagine this rift, the division of metal, and two parts walking; to perish the sun, to ask for wholeness, a bit impatient. We want it now—the earth as love, the pain as minute; to see for pleasure, the joys of life, a father at the helm; oh the challenge, to tussle through dreams, to want abundance; where this conflicts—with jewels and diamonds, a rebel to stand alone. I see a freckle, and an oval face, shooting at demons. I perished that moment, to rise that instance, a soldier for rituals; to combat life, that brief event, to harvest emotions; and love flies, to scrape the gravel, as dusty as caves; to finally float, as fever and vine, the tides of sorrow. It couldn’t be—to love as strangers, and cut so deeply; where fault is his, a mistreated man, and she holds this position.    

A Dream Away From Dreaming

I think of dreams, a bit too cautious to dream. I wrestle life, this thread of mustard seeds. We seldom know the affect of prose, to measure our virtues. It’s the value of love, which compels the dreams, that closer to knitting visions; and die this dream, to live this dream, a dream away from dreaming. The woes are vague, to center a source, an attempt for clarity; to dig as restless, a coffin of nerves, a gator in a net. I dream of sinning, this lavish sin, cemented in riches; where this is false, the gates of tears, a loss of establishment; but oh the dreams, to feel as human, a grain into a harvest; to reel for colors, this turquoise sky, a pocket of the cosmos. I see us spinning, a slave of righteousness, to reap such fervor; and die this dream, to live this dream, a dream away from dreaming; to feel this life, a carousel for moons, as wholesome as prayers; and dream this dream, this world we flourish, as burdened as dreams; to live and die and give and sin.     I know this face, a tender expression, to perish this dream; where facts are trite, the winds are precious, and the valves are revving; to see as life, the death of issues, to journey this dream. We passion the night, as gray as visions, to discern the purple; in turn we suffer, to wax so pure, a vase upon an antique shelf; to die this dream, and give this dream, a dream away from dreaming; where tension stirs, the roots of self, and the bark is stumbling. I feel so young, to imagine such years, the face of a mother’s calm; to hear for hells, and say for little, to watch in the wings; where god was bold, to frighten the light, to carry embarrassment; but life for dreams, to castle and turn, a dream away from dreaming.       

The Swan Whispers

It’s hard to fly, my Love—forever this station, searching the embedded slopes; to see your smile, as cultured as humble, as bold as velvet. We found a thought, to journey this sphere, as broken as crumbs; and I saw a tomb, to bracket the wings, where guffaw echoed. If only a palm, the nails of life, and gave so much; to see the birds, to feel the geese, a number as a symbol; so sevens it is, to bless your soul, through winter thorns; in which the death, as something grand, to yearn your eyes. The heart churns and waxes cold—for essence is darkened; and how to cheer, the crooked days, that morph through years; but love is pliers, to uncork the rain, a link in our chain; where hell unravels, and gavels slam, to rule in your favor. I give us this—this immortal board, as fevered as Christ; and I give us this—this hysteria, as orderly as grandpa’s love; where so much pained—the heart and soul, to see the repeats—and know for not; but more to us, this favor of friends, riddled with pigmentation. We chase eternal, to hold regrets, to blink a bit too often; and died come life—and submitted came life—and rebelled came death. I know you by blood, and mold you by Spirit, and grandma knows—the flow of ancestors, the girth of magic, the width of heaven. It’s amazing, Love—to perish and flourish, as florid as cathedrals, as present as a heart clasp; where militia is prayer, and Krishna’s preserver, and Vishnu is segue. Oh for Lord, to hold for secrets, to utter silence; so I never told, to live it boldly, to reap the pastures; in which is soul, the repute of pains, the essence of God; and it couldn’t be—the same ousia—to plague the souls; and it couldn’t be—the lev of minds, to wrap this heart; and yes it is!   

Broken Schematic

It’s existential—this distraction, to pull at that hour—to die sable eyes, and violet hopes, a psyche of battleships. I feel marooned, by one to love, this myth of the moment. It tortures the life—when sex is mere joy, as opposed to attachments; and died this Sunday, such religious panic, to fly come heart-raptures; where pain is wings, the honor of this gift, a swan as thunder; to sketch the carpet, and sip French wine, those articles of sanity; where colour drips—into soulful hearts, to measure scruples; to die this life, and live this death, an existential resistance. We chime with grace, the face of stress, to wrestle inner demons; and god loves—the art of love, to pressure love; in which is treasure, to dart the mark, to settle the mishaps.  

It’s existential—this entrapment, to die at that hour—and live that moment, torn by angst, as clever as no-more; and I love her, this uneven number, to secern the magnitude; and I scold us, to push passed thought, to encounter satori; else the hurts—of mediocre thoughts, as infant as crayons; but this is life, to nestle with wants, to ignore facts; for this is comfort, where I is presidential, and us is mediocre. How for such loss, to hold such sulfur, to feel delight? It baffles the mind—this crooked lens, a masterpiece of antiques; where love is you, the product of life, to ask so much. It’s truly ideal, to ask the absent, for something we can’t give; such as self, to want for vengeance, as opposed to your heartbeat.       

Is Heaven a Heartbeat?

The gallery of Christ!—and even a nose bleed, to further this friction; and came the day, a psych in a chair, to rupture my thoughts. How to live it—that confused life, the product of minds; and oh the pictureless, to infuse the dreams, to become objective! I mourn the silence, a woman my friend, to dig the sacred slopes—and oh the steep cliffs; to cycle my life, to feel such pain, and proceed forward. There’s many to speak it—this sacred volt, to imbue a kingdom; and die this night, the nectar of splendor, a veil as a keystone. I barely know, to feel a star, a child for divinity; to course the day, to picklock myth, a simple conversation; to cry our lives, the windfall of sorrows, the daydreams of joys; whereat is us, a conclave of demons, a landmark of passion. Do you know—the wails of Christ, to scan that world, where angels drift, and birds sing, and God casts blessings? I love it like passion, a tiny swan, a mother in the wings; to see them flap, to lace a sandal, to mourn for Zion. I drank the trembling, to hold for hands, a sword as recovery. Oh the rebuke, to plead the cause, the cup of trembling; and more the streets, to see catastrophes, a child nursing a cub; where God heard, to suddenly appear, standing in glory; and Christ soared, to pierce the thunder, to pluck a wing; for more to moms, dying the caged worlds, as grounded as heartache; to see us perish, that broken kernel, as gravid as intentions; for this is life, to walk the splits, to entertain two worlds; where Christ forgives, a mallet for a cushion, to say, I love you; where this is love, and dusky thoughts, flung into the future.     Oh the Paraclete, to infuse the passions, that closer to an overhaul; to see it flash, to then flinch, that further the heartbeats.   

Happy Easter

We fever the night, that long journey, flaming through winter snow; to favor your heart, that dart of life, where falcons fawn; and what a dream, to receive justice, a kiss through turmoil.     Oh for resurrection, the daunting measures, that green grass of the meadows—to impassion this love, dauntless—to face the death, and gravid in sorrows—as if shipwrecked, and bearing holy wounds, to pierce the blue skies. We love for swans, the pressure of perfect, to remember an image—where teachers carry—both daisies and tulips, unknown by the core; in which is Light, an object in words, as reticent as the esoteric. We cry in joy, this indelible love, the nectar of a heartbeat; to wish for mystic psychs the love of life—to wist the Paraclete; and die this love, to rise this love, a brilliant Light to show forth. It couldn’t be, for such as anger—to morph madly for mourning; but this is peril, to suffocate dreams, where the self inverts; and this is death, to refuse to breathe, and fain for perfect.     Oh for resurrection, the daunting measures, that beige grass of the meadows—where sons trail, to meet the skies, to speak with our Sensei; that place for gold, the art of secrets, the Kung Fu of intuition; and even this Tai Chi, the portrait of minds, as nonplus as the Seven Wonders.     We know of Life, this awesome cave, and that awesome cloth; and wherefore the night, a Fantast Mystic, the Phantom of our Salvation; to chime with villains, and eat with scoundrels, as the forerunner of this faith.     We rarely see it, the marble of our precepts, the voltage of this faith; to die so gracefully, to witness the tribunal, to be given wings; and God came, to comfort souls, The Dialogues of Job.   

Is it ever Easy, to Taste Love’s Nectar

I run the risk of fracturing time, that close to a weary soul; to cry the tune—of life for death—the breath of an inward wand. Our lament is sore—the value of pain, to churn unto salvation; to know a secret, the fallin’ of chi, an energy as Spirit. I wither in fragments, a fretful plight, to wonder of a failed beginning; and love this heart, a window of souls—the daunting dance of dawn! We perish an outcome, the saddest memory, clothed in perfection; and near for pasture, the plucking of plums, as pure as April.

I hear the cry—of endless times, tattered and bruised; to see for glory, a gleaming contour, the beauty of pain; and die this night—of morning resurrections, a spider as a brain.

We structure the angst, that closer the garden, an advocate of daylight; where love is grand, the feather of wings, to nourish a churning soul; where love is purple, and art is green, to filter the beige outcomes.

Our love is stressed—by girth and value, to polish this image of maybes; and fly this warmth, to break free a coffin, to emit a series of sparks; for this is love—the waves of passion, to censure the partial reasons; and die that turn, that fearless dance, as sidereal as blackholes.

I speak for love—that torn event, where distance numbs intensity; but this is life, a spiritual residue, as esoteric as silence: to live and shine, the vest of woes, a soldier of Samson's;

where it couldn’t live, this heart for love, as splintered as the blue moon; but this is grace, to churn through breath, and finally taste love’s nectar.   

Dream Come the Drifts

Infuse this dream this total bewilderment silent and thunderstruck; infuse this fane the brokenness of this life the belt of this human condition; in-flight the highs the lows to come—fragmented with chi and chills and chaos. I wander the cages this edge of tensions to leap this mountain from wedge to wedge and fevered the hedge of invisible realities. [I drift!] It’s the oath of eyes the oak of vows that cloaked heartbeat to weep the numbness of nonchalance. I heard her the cries of the grackle peering into a soul the compass of our furnace. We’re unbound the flow of tendencies that closer for such evidence and a stranger to such beauty. Its fair the Earth Wind & Fire, to grow through dragons the night to call towards the mercies; where to feature this run—our days a façade of reality, to enter the realm of this seaquake; and die this art the woes of love and valued to see her skating upon waves. [I drift!] Is it blaspheme to speak this pain stranded in the twilight—the folklore of realities? Is it her name to vibrate and cloud-born to swoon the heights of discernment that hour of gravid bliss? It comes as both, as hectic as the challenge of love—and stir the fright this inlet of poker life. [I drift] The choir is frantic as beating in souls the water of this mystic light—and fire this grove the inner kingdom as frantic as beating souls. We fever as sunlit vandals that further the Christian life—as radical as a preacher’s pressures; and long we live that near to vanished, to polish our souls. [I drift!] I return to love the fervor of this novice as it comes through anthem and stars; to frequent her name the call of passion the nights of meditation; to culture this life—to feel for banished—a fishnet of woes.                        

Out of Self/Out of Silence

Open eyes, Dove—to see this world, for glory and pain; to rain come midnight, forever at arms, a weapon through the forest; and dream this wealth, a letter in a bottle, ever my shore. We claim for raw, a custom manicured, to die through resurrection. Oh the sun, a walking masterpiece, as beautiful as sin; to fall like leaves, to seal like glue, the magnitude of grace. I sought romance, the chase of deers, to meet catastrophe; where pearls beckon, the moon to drift, and miles to deserts. I fell apart, an ignition revving, stressed in overdrive; whereby the pain, to hate in that moment, stripped of dignity. I know of love, a goddess in veil, as hellish as compassion; to signal death, the greatest war, to ask for youth eternal; and cry this night, a whisper to ears, to change his life. I died to see her, as warm as fire, to perish her heartbeat. Oh the words, to challenge terms, to earn this weal; and rubber burns, to stain the gravel, a man at war; and was it self, the chains of glory, to lose a vessel; to claim immortal, and so young, to chase this life; where monsters roam, to hassle dreams, the screams as a nightmare. Its pantomime, that near a manikin, to endure the rain. I couldn’t see it, a Danish star, to ignore unto revelation. I sought for waves, a burden to a dream, to ruin reputation; and more the hurt, to flee from self, to scribe a mirror—as sight and death, the span of lives, to mourn and sigh. We locked a vision, to tiptoe illusion, to greet infinity; and live her flame, to churn in circles, to scratch this soul; and die our hearts, to seek out pardons, for something lingers. Oh the days, to master pianos, sketching symbols of music; to seize the passion, to skip the trauma, a mile to the finish line.                     

Roots Speckled in Rain

Mother didn’t do it, so I don’t.     I knew you the terror, to fawn towards beauty, a soldier to face it; and love misheld, to picture perfect, an ant in a museum; to mourn the fracture, alive come daybreak, to enter the darkness. Oh to perish, this triple life, stranded to the quicksand; and come true this night, the oak and pine, the stories embedded through souls; to pierce the day-quakes, an ocean of dreams, captured in the Brownings; and heard the screams, to emanate tears, stationed in a beating drum; that further the arts, a human clarinet, the flutes of a person; for mountains shatter, to become a seed, as tall as glaciers.

We feel regrets, to become for human, or better a skycraft; to flame the gray, to feel for static—the pangs of, We can’t; and whom to court, over a CD skipping, to proclaim love; and something unyielding, despite the gravid rain, that flood to paralyze the nightmares. Oh the visions, to permeate the dreams, to appear as concrete; for one that’s altered, to wrestle realities, as humble a Kung Fu; where life is battles, to avoid the spikes, chanting through gongs. We know for years, to feel like crap, holding to a position; but what of life, to heal like surgeons—the midnight pains; and heard my life, to flash through mirrors, that particular grain.                  

The Fever of Music

We met a friend through a fist fight; the night churned, to spin a daze, to love the lectures. Oh to relax, fifty pages in, to dissect the Scriptures. I’m finding life, as found to self, a verse embedded deeply: that inner cry, that torn discomfort, the heart as a vacuum. Its art the mares, to give for strength, a woman as pillar; to faint in stress, and gravel the days, to morph into an Anakim. It’s long your time, to rise through yeast, a beast as survivor. We know for hate, to venture towards love, as a method for self; to die this wave, the eyes of a swan, captured in a spiral. She loves you golden, to fly a feral furnace, totally alive in death. Oh to beckon, the rapture of deepness, the kiss of professors; to fall with psychs, and rise with queens, that wealth of inner wills.

I live for you, a stranger of dreams, screaming at a television; this thing within, this facial spirit, and fully discontent. It hopped the light, to make for notice, a torrent of anger. I fell the chair, to wonder of why, to curse the ignorance. Oh for thunder, to feel otiose, or a pawn in a dungeon; where phantoms deigned, to show as shadows, the measure of this pontification; and gods heard, to swoop and swarm, a nation of daughters. I never spoke it, the esoteric, a world of intellectuals; to claim the river, to know its flow, a fraction of the spectrum. We love you both, as pilgrims—of this vast ocean; in which is life, a friend unseen, a woman afraid; and the earth churns, to see your essence, and midnight fire; to dream and die, as dead-alive, a million miles that star.         

Immortal Kingdom

There’re casualties that reclaim spirit, to ruminate in chants; this altered dimension, to die the expansion—and return a new man. The old is dormant, a tepid spark, requiring maintenance

—else to flourish, even as fever, the destructive self. He’s somewhere that place, the space of a billion persons, spiked in forks of fey; to cry these walls, as one in a dungeon, to morph into glory. It couldn’t be the hands of anguish the cause of such joy; to wonder of cycles, that instant climb, chiming with fireflies; while for myths, as merely segue, to enter the rising future.

There’re masters, to court for favor, the lives of the greatest legends; to see it fallin’ the empty sun, as radiant as illumination; to wrestle illusions, as triumph and scar, the fields flushed with mercy.     We mourn the nights, to relish through days, to see a bold connection; for it couldn’t be that all was made accept this one thing; and it couldn’t be by him through him and for him, where something sustained itself; else the beginning unto the end has a neighbor; by which this neighbor has a life dependent upon itself. 

There’s infinity, the crevice of a soul, to return to itself; to utter in fury the blindness of the times; where daughters knit invisible realities, spinning the yarn of divinity; and we love it more, the pangs of triumph, crafted as a branch; to see for subtle, the favor of chosen, even a kingdom of goats; but sword to heart, to enter Aum, or better the thunderbolt path. He gave her jewels—the call of vocation, to harvest the unseen—and thresh the mind, the lineage of souls, to channel an ancestor—to paint this life, as picture and frame, to outlive a mortal thought.    

Mind-banks

The years sit aglow that stalk the mind-banks; there’s a universe, pressured by thoughts, a cave of oak trees; to live in shadows, squirming for light, appalled—at various turns. To see the chakras squatting lowly, that tare of vexations. He fell a grave, to become his breath, received by few; that channel of tensions, to watch the self-death, to spiral with gurus—that left behind, trailing from a distance—and Light heard, the silent wails, screaming from cemeteries. The mirror’s muddy, to buff an impression, disarmed by the sight; to then flinch, to gaze deeper, to suture a dream. If only to patch it, where none would see, the confusion of a private island: so much to vanity, to replace the mask—where polish is made of gravel—to forfeit emotions, and swarmed by emotions, to feign as callous—the darkest of nights, the measure of dying, where the mentor is suffering. We see it in children, a tinge of ours souls, acquired through proximity—and even through actions. He couldn’t see it—the crows and clouds and sky-falls—to trek deserts until he heard it; to yearn for more of this partial bliss founded in fleeting moments. It must exist—this yin for yang, this internal balance: if only a section, to harmonize life, that second of convergence—afloat the winds, that graphic change, that emphatic upheaval; to live this heart, at full potential, to commune with a universe. He tore the ideal, to split in parts, that closer to a triumph; to meet a soul that pushed the pressure, to impart a subtle gift. This is measure—to give in fragments, to alter illusions—that driven self, to stipple a dot a minute, where the outcome, satisfies the craving, for this telic need.     

Existence

To wrestle with it—and so far from home, roaming through thoughts; the emphatic lights—the graphic bulbs—that closer the reality; through turns and dead-ends, where walls morph into a maze. There’s pressure—the must for entrance, to filter the marsh; where presence lives, the mesh of disease, to distinguish thoughts. The bells are ringing, to reenter life, as one exits the womb. Something features a dream, as if out of place, the plight of a living church. It couldn’t be—this thing—that it is, to waft through dialogues, that richer the arts, wherefore the aches.

Rivers vanish—that picture the flood, a bed of bones; to caption midday, to mingle the midnights that spark the lanterns, and even the caves. There’s a lithic mind—connected to brains, to measure the frontal lobes; and there’s a dream, to reach this perfect—this perfect definition; plus for love, to seldom that moment, this sense of heavy; to challenge normality, to sketch the portrait, this mosaic life; in which for hearts, to shift like waves, to trek it uneasily; whereby to shake at curves, where the gravel churns, and the pillars run.

Such is existence—a never before journey, captured in the sinks of minds; the thirst for better, or something other—than the yellow lights; that grand appeal, to live it unsteady, to watch a world in secrecy. It couldn’t be—to want it so deeply—this adult life; where features are crooked, to die the living life, to suddenly vanish; in which are dreams, to have for riches, where time would laugh; so more the arts, and psychic music—the days of phantoms; else the measure, for that constant ache, a millennium of running. 

Passion of a Dream

What for this love, a pearl in a valley, this turquoise river; the height of dreams, the kiss of dice, that journey of footprints. I love you wildly, at times calmly, filled with kinetic zeal; to plummet weakness, to feel for vulnerable, fraught with delicate wisdom. We perish gestures, at life for moments, to roast in conversation. It’s sore the visions, a daisy from a cloud, where fey studies the heart. We’ve captured something—the joys of yearning, to embark upon a voyage; where diamonds glisten—into a countenance—that further the finish line. I love us born, this incarnation, to find you through lifelines; that distant planet, to trek it as doves, alive, and barely to breathe; for the heart is full, filled with chi, at the touch of your palm; through so many turns, to churn with agony, to know for treasures; to love the sunrise, to paint the clouds purple, at times to mourn the fleetingness; where life ends, and the chase begins, to find us at the crossroads. I hear the silence, that tender ache, to caress a voiceprint. Our souls are locked, the linchpin of dreams, carried into the expansion. I love you more, at war with self, to feel so deeply. We cherish this warmth, but a fraction of self, to ever part ways. There’s completion—that smile made mine, your laughter in my voice; to see for light, the stars that fell, embodied in our minds; in which are dreams, to amble a forest, guided by your scent; for oh the days, to finally cancel, where I hunt through heaven’s fields. I feel you more, the core to churn, where I proffer the key—for due return, to give more, a chandelier upon the skies. We must persist, through caves of love, to flourish through the thickets; for oh the briers, to push our souls, to stress the barriers of love; whereto to soar, with wings spread, that closer to eternity. 

Joy as a Teacher

I thought to speak of it, this lavender dream, outlined in bliss; to wonder of merits, an ecstatic life, and all that’s lost; whereto is friction, to want for pleasure, at the grandest expense: one’s wisdom, unless for merit—we learn through joy. Would it be—the measure of resistance, uniformed in easiness? It sounds differently—when uttered aloud—the ring of knowledge winged gently; but more the cyan vision—to obtain without tension, this guidance of life. The thesis follows: joy is a teacher, the root of wisdom, where pain is its deficit. I couldn’t imagine, where joy is the root, where such deepness has come out of resistance; but take a child—where basics are taught—through the kindest gestures; whereat pangs of growth, seem to embody—the deepest results; however this life, to truly enjoy it, must be balanced between the two. We desire to know—if that that is good—has ever come without a measure of resistance—some nature of tension—that differs from the easiness of joy; albeit we desire that wisdom—flow from the valve joy, we realize that resistance proffers the richest yields; where this is life—to want for depth—through the easiest channels; while many beg to differ, opting for resistance, where such yields the richest harvests. We attempt to see it—the countenance of the two, where joy differs from pain: the one is upbeat and outgoing; the latter is resolved and cautious; where both are interchangeable; but rather the two, carry certain characteristics—that are indicative of the mindset. Too much of each—proves harmful, where one wonders of the harms of joy; while if approached wrongly, pain proves harmful, as opposed to a natural teacher.      

Freeway Traffic

Where was us—through tides of hell—to forfeit the good; and where was love—to battle insanity, alone in the city streets; when love turned desperate, an ant in a crevice, where the thunder broke. It was the deaths, to caution the returns, a belt at his neck—and wrapped for breathless; to wage a marathon, as bells clanged, to signal for war. Our souls lost, where only depth would see, the suffering chi; while airs mated, and heirs perished, a cage fallin’ the abyss; to kiss as strangers, where the villain judges, to tiptoe an edge, and right for analysis; while a world is deaf, to favor the cryptic, where mystery was wanting. It was daylight; the stars were hiding; the sun was in a pound; while a hedge shattered—the want of this life, to take one last oath. I see it as perfect, the rounds of this death, to expose a novice; in which is sadness, the madness of this art, to mimic the gray nights. Its cloaks and oaks, to fall his mind, to weep through numbness; while grackles cry—the tears of gods, to examine a compass—to fire a furnace; for the deep is pain, and rightly unbound, to lose a fortune; where this is breath, the years of Buddha, to search out evidence; and deer mourn—through pouty eyes, a stranger to a mirror; to wrestle fair beauty, nearly annihilated, and alienated fully; that too far call, a flagon in a park, a façade for a face; oh the seaquake, in a sea-less swirl, gripped with heartache. Off to twilight, the folklore of amore, to grapple with dear life; while ripples stir—the here and then, to live it as just born; and what for madness—to run and flee—a world of deaths; where the cause was self, and the death was self, and the art is death?    

Swan Priest

Read the draperies, Love—excavate the credenzas—penetrate the shoji screens; for this is wisdom, to trek the cedar-chests, to unthread the futons; else harp the night pains, upon a tuffet, screaming at a couch. We welcome the love seats; that far removed, from the cautious self. The tales are mixed—to die the joys, even upon a porch swing, to capture a firefly; but oh the woes, to forget the good, while claiming innocence. It’s often a farce, but why speaks of truths, where so many believe. It’s a radical gesture, where many perish, for the audience has grown suspicious; but live it more: a piano’s friend, an antique china, as wise as the unseen; where pearls dance, to chance the moon, to scrape a tiny crevice; to fly this life, a woman as priest, a quiver of secrets; to aid a soul, at that midnight hour, a woman as the guru.

Read the draperies, Love—examine the coffee tables—realize the measure of games; for this is wisdom, for one to know, to will participation. There’s a gem to it: to see it play out, to watch it get angry—merely for we see. This is radical, where many are even—for masters of fair-play; in which is magic, a treasured friend, to seem unborn. We speak the ideal, where it must exist, at least in appearance; but more the actual, to live resistance, despite the difficulty; in which are dreams, to touch the tea cart, a palm filled with jewelry—to cause for healing, to suture wounds, to live the richest breath; for there are pendants, modeled as humans, to spark the divine.               

Wherefrom the Treasure

To flit so gracefully, alive in that instance, a body of tremors; to die unto joy, to perish unto rebirth, to touch the touchless—this pictureless entity, striving where we failed, a prayer of radiance. The pulse for beats, a tribe of drums, a spectrum of intensities; for something reverberates, to enter our hearts, to commune with a village; and no one is near, but afar dearly, to ponder our names; for such are undulations, to fly in stillness, to catch a glimpse—of the Koan Queen—this asexual Being, disguised as an inner sanctum. There’s fear and trembling, for something that leaps, a tear for initiation; to pardon the absence, where vapor speaks, that there and close afar!—to flicker a frankincense, to claw at the smoke, unto faces of glory.

She waves through wills, plus for sudden the subtlety of silence; to overwhelm—the system, as divine as human, spinning through an instance. There’re dust particles and flames fevered in grayness a living tabernacle; to enter a low space, for such candescence, to want for extraordinary—that candid wish, to capture the features—the times of mysticism; where one knows—the exit and ingress, that closer the numen; in which is life, the deepest heartache, to die through the nearness—and float this scream, the tides of rising, to fall into a trance.    

Sore Upon Thunder

It’s a sky-fall,

surrounded in crystals,

kneeling at a millpond;

to break a trestle,

in need of change,

that closer unborn—and

shifting through feelings,

the night to speak,

to fathom the great phantom;

for this are eyes,

a whetstone dream,

as vibrant as epiphanies;

so more the life,

to break the tavern,

as tears shimmer through love:

the face as pouty,

the heartbeat strong,

a tent of radiance;

to charge airways,

to sit through a gaze,

to embark upon a voyage;

for mornings glisten,

a racing pulse,

that flooded the horizon.

I couldn’t sleep,

to speckle the spectrum—forever

this force.

We live as yachts,

afloat the seas,

to outsoar a neighbor’s novel;

to condition life,

as false as fancies,

a moment in a coffin;

where love is shattered,

to grip a stranger,

to blame a stranger—for

such as pain,

to float freely,

and angry as Hades.    

We Died Without a Breath

What of this love—to channel a hive, alive come sunfall; to perish this life, to hold your hand, as torn as a summer breeze. We love it—to see it, this part of heaven; and partial my days, to ponder a gesture, as one that’s flooded; to see it come, that special space, to breathe for woman. I’ve changed this life, as something cordial, to balance the flickering flame; and ever to hold back, a bit notorious, to stumble through troubles. Oh the fleshly slain, the sustenance as sulfur, a tendency gone crazy; to print your eyes, and laminate our dreams, to gear towards the immortal; and dream we could, to nurse a child, as wild as summer rain; but this is love, the burden of visions, as blind as a newborn; for I couldn’t see us, to plague the wrongs, to feign for happiness; and I couldn’t feel us, to paint for perfect, this natural course; so more to pain, to fracture the jots, that torn through cities. Oh for that love, something rare, to give to a few; and oh for this life, to share with one, plus a household of children. I know the measure, to feel acclaimed, and at least for worthy—to carry a seed, as a rites of passage, as grand as evolution; and pain heard, to rift the shadows, as fevered as the last tide; to reckon forever, where times change, to shatter both wants and dreams; but oh the tales, to shower the truths, stationed at a red light; to build a fortress, the aches of sorrow, as fortified as that last touch; in which to perish, if must we know, to repent the days. I’m lost to think it—that it came so swiftly, but a day of turmoil; to see for such rain, the cover of fools, to drip into a crevice; and love failed, to think of perfection, a light ten tiers below; to know for angst, without the length, that reaches for a safety valve. 

Let the Sails Flow

How to redeem this soul

—fully abstract, to see for reason?

I loved her more, to unslake a vision,

as dead as this living life.

I found us, at the dome of love,

and complicated dearly; to see it rise,

this thrust of days, as chill as midnight;

to love the senseless, and abate for nothing,

to write an opus; where angels waft, and demons cry, to blend into humanity; for what is it, to control a sane man, at the cost of losing temperature? Its hell the frequency, the loss of valleys, to simmer in hostilities; and fallin’ this night, to ride a horse, that thrown through heavens; to beckon the language, a twinge of insight, as free-flowing as winds.

How to aby the soul

—thwart for damaged—the sigh of the

lands; to chisel perfection, even a false dream,

that closer reality’s fields; to pause and

die, flitting through pains, to finally gain

control; where rain is lethal—to flog

perception, to beat a conscience.       

Wind Winged

Was I blind, Dove—to measure insanity, that closer a thetic breakthrough; to treasure so grayly, the zeal of Zen, to fracture intuition; where love was bold, as mad as midnight, to wrestle the dark haze. I see it as royal, this mystic harp, a stirring of skeletons. The world is panic, and hypertension and a web of anxieties. I long for more, this quiver of a flash, to spend a lifetime chasing—for even a kiss, where eyes were locked, to embrace the esoteric; but was it us, that frequent currency, to charge December; or was it I, a deluded world, to curve the essence? The rills are epic, to keep for secrets, as unknown to its effects; where life is oath, and word by face, to remove the mask—and cry this night, as precious as swans, as stern as mothers; but this is love, the grim by craft, to absorb a flash. I disappear!

I couldn’t see, as thrown as mania, an idol to him-self; to journey rightly, the tours of God, to face the numen; where a totem shattered, to never return, a psych at heated junctures; for mind is law, to curve reality, in which is madness; but art is timeless, this endless design, to feel immortal; to spot the gray, as a hectic feat, as rigid as plight; but what for feelings, to resist for nothing, as lost as unfound islands; for this the waves, an otic message, to float upon an inner cycle; to die and live, the spec of existence, if only a kiss! There’s a silent gong, to erupt suddenly, to offset equilibrium; where souls flatter, this inner perception, singing with songbirds; for tears have fallen, to want for love, to paraphrase, Rihanna; and something lived, to torch the core, as scorched as a burnt steak; to see us flourish, to know for pains, the agony of this need.    

Seven Feathers of a Wing

I can’t remember, to think we know, of a life that’s ours; and I can’t feel, this heated fever, as gothic as love. We thought for us, akin to reality, to forfeit that stream; where letters perish, a medieval pang, to dig the dregs of souls. Its phone to dream, and dream to phone, to scream, “Just say it.” We run from images, a marathon of traumas, to pause at a bedpost; and die our souls, a moment of clarity, to understand the rests. Its two weeks of love, a collage in hindsight, something special to a stranger; but this is love, that intense adrenaline, featured at an edge; to perish the silence, to relish the rain, to kiss the make-believe; for this is far, if not a myth, to scrape a distant mind; and what of love, to have for many, to vision of few. I’m strong the nightmare, and tough the outcome, as primal as first attraction; but never could, to think of would, to admire a skirt; where this is life, the change of thoughts, some type of judgment.

We’ve died to dream, as bold as actors, to see it live; to knit a purse, and pass a valve, that closer the midnight; and as more for love, to wonder of presence, to think of Simone; even more Madonna, to shelter a thought, that grew in turmoil; so more is vest, this deep allure, to flip a thousand coins; where voice is law, to hear the sound, and plucking grass. Oh the electric, this inner piano, the ruth of our reality; to shine as diamonds, to play for cocky, to know for love.   

Crisis

There was a crisis—and hell gave birth—to the muscles of chaos. I was mere a skeleton, and fully unaware, to this world of insanity. Symbols became fire—to scribe a soul, as sore as sullen stanzas. I stressed the liver, too high to see—the glare of the forest; and more the ocean, flooding wooded areas—the constellations of a heart. I saw without seeing; I heard without hearing; and arms bent to touch without touching. I pause to smell it, the angst of taste—this crisis of a man.

Oh this mind, the brain of my lungs, to penetrate bone and marrow; the essence of churning, the veins of stomachs, pictured in jigsaw feelings; plus a swan—and more a mother, to face the catastrophe; where heads become eyes, and the navel bleeds, a chin filled with calamity; for oh the crisis, to see the world flee, gnawing on gristle and chewing on pain. I imagine the oddness: to turn on a lover, where others dug in; and I imagine the sorrow, to watch as dreams melted, bending too many knees; and oh the hell, where feet swelled, to remember a first born. 

There was a crisis—behind the eyebrows, the wind to his ears; and church was held, to return to roots, to cast out the hell in me; and it reddens cheeks, the grievous retrospection, the mouth uttering what the lips can’t; for something died, to offend the arms, legs moving the want of motion; and this is love—to hold a soul, to witness the breakthroughs; for there was a crisis! 

Hi Love VI

I see us at a lake. You’re a bit thoughtful. I ask of a diamond; you shrug. Friendship breathes this way; where phantoms dream of flourishing; but what for fame; to live it in silence, as vocal as images. You’re seen as opaque, to speak with fluency, an idol for academia. Is it elfin charm, the constant dialogue, to cause a lack of depth? I venture its vatic; that is, prophetic; this vision within a dream. I see us at a lake, dressed smartly, palms a bit sweaty; for the sun is speaking, both giving and draining, to tan a facial expression. You look and smile; there’s something to a moment, where ripples are forming. The winds are jesting, even calming, that inner oddness. We laugh at ducks, to watch behavior, even a moment of contention. I ask but few questions, in turn delighted, to hear your voice. This is gentle, as photic as sunshine, tugging at sub-currents. We often live this way, by sharing the hem, ever ludic at moments; that inner joy, to surge upward, to rupture in laughter. I see a train, a musical design, as melic as our heartbeats. But what of storms, a castle besieged—the nib of our thought-prints? I dare to ask, to see it art-bound, the Psalms of David; but what of this thing, rooted in itself, as florid as anguish? I dare to ask, to see it soul-bound, the Scriptures of St. Paul. The birds are sullen—to experience a cycle, to sing of conditions. We listen closely, to make for rhythms, as welkin as mind-light; where yours is vivid, a universe upon a countenance, to clarify through reason. I dare imagine, a heated debate, as earnest as honest; to feel for pressures, the art of clarity, to define this human life; for we see a lake, a swirl of upwelling, to share our snacks.       

Touch of Agony

We measure so often the sorest complications, at times uncomfortable with peace; for the essence is surprising, in this Protestant setting, where work is deemed as supreme and life is deemed as troublesome, even dark and gloomy. We appear as bolted to the seams, to struggle as unbolted, to register this sense of nervousness. We see it as natural, even philosophical, to blend it with metaphysics: that sudden cry, to languish in energy, rubbing a vase for a jinni. “It shouldn’t be so difficult”; to live this life, neither sheltered nor unsheltered—skating mystic terrains; but deep the glory of rain, comes the scars of breath, to arrive at a space worthy of allegiance. It’s the comfort of womblike cocoons; that as spiritual security, wrecked at junctures, reamed with the chaos of havoc: to kneel through turmoil, to hear that sullen wail, to feel this inner person. Lights grow dim; where we lose our centers, stumbling to find that infinite space. Something dies in cycles, where the two are courting a stranger weekly—where the essence remains familiar. Oh when the essence is shifted, and the night prevails, that life is riddled with sorrow; albeit, we wrestle melancholy, to sift for joys, to become sentimental; where such is easy to become, for we witness such heartache—whereby, a gentle gesture registers a misty response. “It couldn’t be real”; this mystery of woes, to channel so deeply, to become so esoteric: to say for little, to read but fragments, that closer to have said but a smidgen; whereat, is frustration—to have felt so deeply—this thing, which remains inexplicable. It becomes a test: to have said it all, while exhibiting obscurities, fashioned to some degree, by that that has been written.                           

                                   

It’s not surprising that we cleave to joys—stationed in a paradox, where some things are oxymoronic, and other things appear as bias. We search for clarity, a type of leaning, where our dreams are favored, and our tears are treasures; otherwise, we become defensive, standing at an impasse, eager for a yellow light; where this is mutuality, that type of nothingness, whereby, we depart in uneasiness. We’ve stated this sense of pain; but what of bliss, disguised as fleetingness, where pain appears as a continuum. It appears that an interruption denotes a rift; so for pain to ceased in honor of joys, shows a pattern; wherefore, we long for joyful moments, as a recognition that the pain has been interrupted; but so often the pain is more dominate than the joys—therefore, we take for granted those moments in which we relish in moments of bliss; nevertheless, it is the joys of life—which draw forth that age of matrimony. It is too the joys that usher our recognition of reaching; that too close feeling of there is other than what I feel at a given moment; thus, we mingle, read, study, work, and so many other engagements that minister to a joyous atmosphere; nevertheless, we are not shy concerning the human condition; we realize that discomfort is a reality that probes human consciousness, revving our resilience.              

Noetic Friend

My noetic friend, the years have morphed—into floral webs.     I see you as life, clad in anthems, as furtive as psychs; but I can’t resist, to address a star, fevered in a heartbeat; but more to holy, to drop a soul, the sword of this physic flame; and oh the grief, to know for wrong, to live it as asylum.     We know for truths, to weigh the wrong, to opt for the deeper treasures; and we know for rain, that inner culture, to assuage the agony.     I hear you less, to feel you more, as a boon to this life; where art is signs, to point to hearts, to measure the obscure.     There is much the pain, to gleam in joys, this beam of lightning; to feel for deathless, to wrest the truth, to wimble the frantic; for this is love—to sort for souls, even in silence; to hear the woes, and go for deeper, to alleviate the friction.     I think of you, to seek through angst, a tool for the Father’s hands; but often seen, that near voltage, to place us in Christ’s soul; to ever unbolt, as we swelter dearly, a pair of fantasts.     There’re eyes that shine, to see you dance, to know for a phantom; to swivet at times, a bit opaque, to feel the spirit whisk; where this is gray, the chance of dreams—the agony of the sober heart.     I thought to write, at unawares, the charm of this vatic arm; in which is love, for the chic of souls, sorted at a deeper venue.     It was never meant, through an absent mind, to disrespect the Mother; and it was never meant, to shatter images, albeit in the gray; for this is madness, to reign in daymares, the urge of that crooked surge; so feel and be felt, a stranger to a friend, the tiptoe of smaze; to drift and see, through concentration, a likeness of souls; where this is hurt, to come to aid, to live reception.     

Dear Princess

We haven’t spoken, surfing through brackets, afraid to face the trauma. I write to include you, such a woman, burdened by trauma; but it couldn’t be, the sizzle of pain, to obscure the fevers; and yet it is, this muddy water, the treasure of our wrong-doing. Was it me; or was it us; to bleed the pale grass? I ask—asearch for right-doing, grieving on a doorsill. There’s a birdsong, a nugget on a diamond, howling our agony; where truth is mangled, to want for nothing, aside for sheer address. I feel for placeless, the robe of shame, this tongue of embarrassments; and know the light, to shine in brilliance, striving through this night-rising. It’s photogenic, this merchant’s ache, racing for a finish line; but oh the miles, to capture paradise, to sort through debris; where eyes watch, to count the measures, and even perchance—a grandmother. We were never honest, where vultures spy, even a rasp to souls; but cry not the winds, to weigh the balance, a festoon of miseries, a garland of joys; where confusion bleeds, the kernel’s web, looking to outfox proprieties; but soon be life, a freshet of studded jewels, to rest upon a swan. Is it mere hate, to cloud the stars, as sacral as tottering? I feel it is—this grand distraction, to utter obscenities; but this is pain—and ever to watch, as numb as television; so more an opus, to chorus deliverance, afire at the tribunal. We must ensoul, the clearest path, else to perish this omen’s math; for love is pure, and free of deceits, else to perish this omen’s math; and I want for nothing, aside for thought, to embrace a grand afflatus; so more to wishes, to know for nothing, aside for this calamity; where pain is collars, and fables are brooches, to accustom the beast of debts.    

My Dearest Swan

What is this life, Love: the agonies of joy, the here-now and gone, that constant agitation; to yearn for granite, in an abstract world, longing for concentration; that sunstone bliss, that azotic topaz, those mystic moonstones. We love in segments, to love completely, to feel a subtle ache; for love restrains, to know for conscience, and jasmine ink; but what of family, that familial love, as aqua as ocean eyes; to fret and dance, the sheerness of joy, until the end has come. The memories bloom, through born charisma, the jutes of Adonai. I heard an anthem, through sable mirrors, to reflect a clarinet; where harps were souls, a subtle lament, a concept gone haywire; to feel for mesto, this grand piano, the portrait of a child; to yearn for homecoming, the slant of metaphors, in which is chaos. Oh the wild rivers, to nurture leopards, plus—a swan midair; to come to terms, afraid to sing, where a mother hears your voice. There’s autumn country-sides, and volcanic heartbeats, for an icy furnace; where this is limbo, a sacred ancestor, the urgency of prayer. Oh for magic eyes, to blend with prowess, to find one transfixed; but this is culture, the wealth of four parts, to nestle in orange leaves. I love you should carry weight, to read each turn; where maples bud, and apples become food, that closer a pure lament; that we fight for such, sorting through clutter, to secure the bliss; to live the occult, flaming firewood, to forget the ruts; in which is luster, the fuel of huts, stationed in souls; to flit and fly, to scoot through clouds, effacing smaze and smoke and pains and harms—that closer a breakthrough. I’m more a monk, and stranded to the world, to give both flesh and bone; where gateways are musky, the heaviness of scents, a fragrance to enter minds; but this is rare, the mask of habits, sifting through, Rumi.   

Weeks to Live By

Its cords and jutes and ropes, to fever this love; where images breed, the fad of times, this thing called love. Sirens blare—the art of broken color as sought both goddess and enchantress; but long the dread, to fervent this night, as tears fall the Belle. 

                        I’d perish to outwit death,

            to tailor her name, the fabric of this hybrid child; for it’s unto exile, the girth of this cry, reaching for a turnstone; where skies are clear,

            to push a rook,

                        to pawn our integrity; for love is lethal, the climb of the nights, as whet as rabid

            wolves.

Its cords and jutes and ropes—to central this curse; for oh the beauty, that constant pursuit, the hymn of a koan; to plant a song, for otic waves, to flail the indecision; whereby to flourish, as we perish these ten weeks, the nave of our chaos.

Remember for us, the building of numbness, the oak of sorrows; for oh to say it, to grow a reputation, to give utterance reality; for palms are joyful, to mourn this contrast,

alive for this outcome;

            to fever the moment,

albeit the plaint of love, to grow in that instance; where essence blooms, the weft is magic—in turn this torn experience.

Oh Daughter of Light

Oh this jasper dream, wrapped in charisma, flaring through sapphire eyes. I perish to live it, picking asters, and dandelions—and tulips. Oh daughter of light, pour out a blessing, for the years of Jeremiah; and this is love, the deepest concentration, for the rain that falls. There’s beauty this life—a mazeway of love, and flowing in rainbows; to hear a dramatic tone, or an uneven texture, to retreat into a storm; but the mind is aqua, and centered in beige, for the riches in-betweens. Music is blaring, to permeate a river, a reservoir of hearts; where the swan dances, this organic fire, fevered through pantomime gestures. We watch as silk flows, and glitter glistens, alone sailing a yacht. If only to feel it, to drift through metaphors, to live this life; where legends breathe, through the tears of prose, insync with souls; the measure of this kiss, a moment this bliss, as rich as sullen joy; to feel the droplets, woven in wool, to will through nervousness. Oh to hide, from something so grand—the fear of failure; and ever this Light, this kinetic voice, as bold as concert hearts. We live laments—to ballad our dance, to seize but a fraction—of something made abstract—even for murals, painted in visions. We love through genres, the color of life, trekking through a sad forest; where lions pause—the darkest caves, to give for glory. I see her as love, to master the waters-woes, swimming through a lexicon; to venture this life, an inner duet, a hive to the senses; whereat is mercy, to tailor fate, a hymn decorated in pearls. Oh daughter of light, pour out a blessing, for the years of Jeremiah; and this is love, the richest concentration, for the rain that falls.    

Mystic Topaz

Is it mystery, this mauve reality, this orchid of hearts; to come as presence, a lilac in bloom, as cerise’s of our souls? Oh for mystic wings, and semiprecious stones, a garnet in a psyche. It’s not merely love, as it is the power, or dahlia of caves—this welkin of minds. You’re deep azure, a product of Zion, a flute to awaken souls; but never a glance this mystery, to leap into a mirror, to picture eyes as lutes. Its tender devotion, as devout as honor, as earnest as lieutenants! Something surges, as mention of a soul, a mind full of mystery. You’re a bracket, an intricate gusset, as pillars of this strength. Our world is pain and pearls and mystic laughs—singing through cryptic sorrow.     The hills were upon us—as kings and queens, to chant into a gentle space; our souls floated upon leaves, a calming for wolves, to morph into spirits. The two were one—floating through sky-wings, to fly as blue nights; even anguish appeared, to search out for sources, where memories appeared—without reason or source. Bells are ringing, as gates of grace are opened—we sit in a pool of wine, wetless. I hesitate to utter a few words—that closer to confession. Oh for sketches of love, to breathe but suddenly live, as tinge—or more perfect—a presence. I imagine a sage, graced in fluency, as holiness of a scarf; to jazz as a spar, to carry a legacy, to retreat at applause. The shores are speaking, this sacred language, moaning through ebbs—smiling throw flows: Is this your soul? I wonder as an arc evolves, generated through intensity, to know an inward sketching; to see it as purple moons, to feel it as russet suns, rising in a state of sadness. Oh to be free, or long for station, a freedom akin to losing; for this is rapture, even Sophia, to outwit mere yearnings; so we fly, as mystic topaz, as turquoise visions.     

Winds Through the Very Soul

We’re ancestors, brimming through France, to scribble a mystic pond; and there you are, to center this heart, to shake our connections. If ever to vibrate, to share this love, a castle of platonic souls; and never to die, to flourish this field, running with wolves; oh the mercy, to finally feel us, chiming from a distance. I’m left to ponder, of who it was, to enter my front door. I saw a chain, struggled in links, to enter this soul. I thought of mothers, to channel yours, to feel a reply; but this is vague, a must retreat, for an unknown name; but what the hell, to wrestle and scream—We know for magic! and life is pearls, to fever the flavor, to touch the mind; so we love us more, a wealth of souls, to walk passed unannounced. I’m bolted for unbolted, a zenic volt, a swami’s dream; where this is life, and ever for lost, as deep as the Atlantic; and more for Atlantis, this drilling soul, to reach us at unawares. It’s gotten there, where a father searched, lost in your eyes. Oh the tears, that wouldn’t fall, to build in pressure; and the goddess heard, to read each line, to come for aid. I love you more, to maintain the faith, to hope for your mind. My dearest swan—we love you born, scribbling a mystic pond; but ever for you, to choose for ancestors, to follow that legacy; where mother smiles, to touch for hearts, the length of your core. I pause! to reckon the noetic, to sprinkle gently—the early waves, the channeled storms, the daily strengths; for minds are lethal, to generate koans, to nod at self; where it wasn’t for pain, but more for sight, to recognize a similar thread; and more this love, to never touch arms, to know for pain; but this is life, to read too much, to feel too much, to walk the contradiction.    

Your eyes are burning, a sentence to self, afraid to perish; and god heard, to shoot a volt, to immortalize love. Oh to dream it, reaching where they fell, a sudden pulsation; for love knew, to watch the growth, aloof to prophecies. We trek the trenches, to feel the panic, and foreign to strangers; where we know our voice, to spin the shadow, and scratching from eczema.  I love you born, a Wiccan’s daughter, striving for grandmas; for this is life, through welts and tears, to whittle a fortress. Oh I couldn’t forget, that bright-eyed girl, a bit too shy; and I couldn’t forget, a long-held promise, to die for daily; and love grew, to fever the caves, where the art is concentration. Oh for dancing, to carve a ballad, to wimble a castle; and oh the nights, to feel your soul, to retrospect. We love you more, even our children, to teach the legacy. I feel it deeply, this gnawing death, to make a breakthrough; and there to live, a distant friend, to maintain the secrets; where mothers gather, to invoke the Spirit, and climbing through hells. It couldn’t be, after long the years, a place in your heart; and it couldn’t be, after pain and grief, a kindred soul; but oh it is, this breeding fuel, to flush an empire. I panic to cry, to feel so much, as foreign as a six-sense; and there you are, a pushing volt, to know for consciousness. What for riddles, to pave the love, to trek like monsters. It’s light to days, and days to nights, to grow in spurts. We live grimly, to flourish at moments, to infuse a dynasty; where none shall meet, and all shall prosper, to carry on as strangers. Oh to see it, the furnace of children, that close to grown; and oh to hear it, that instant voice, to confirm the anguish.  

A Hundred Tears

I never ignore it, this probing ache, to station lives; and never to feel it, its full extent, to crumble in tears; but oh the rain, even the storm, to ask the Lord, Why?     The reply is seldom, the stardom of pain, this tragic life; where love is queen, the nature of prose, to pour into a comma. I see you, Love—that closer the rage, to wonder of the mixtures; where words seem askew, to favor a motive, that further the truth; but given life, the heart of love, to celebrate this darkened day; but not for Job, to curse its breadth, speeding towards a convergence.     I drop a tear, even a plethora, to fathom this castle. It’s deep within, the glens of chaos, to court a solution; where hurt is life, the measure of pearls, to know the contradiction. It was ever us—the range of the lands, pierced by infinity; and gods heard—to plea our parts, to find for anger; so what for hearts, that jagged course, even an obscure planet?    

I feel it boldly, this inner wave, that closer to breath; and oh the deaths, to repeat life, as torn as St. Paul; where love is grit, the courage of swans, to mimic the greatest fevers.     I reappear—that deeper the self, to watch every word; but oh the trauma, to know it’s wrong, and staggering songs.     We love with fervor, to die with hate, that closer to annihilation.     It’s a must to wonder, of something so vile, to claim such allegiance; but this is life—ever to hate, while dying in fragments; but more to life, to feel and be felt, where reason takes precedence; for pain is lethal, the guide of souls, to register an apocalypse; unless for love, to take the hem, as honorable as honor; but this is vague, to see a loop, where we give for what is given.   

Swan Heart

It’s this life, Love—forever calm, and to a fault; to pierce the moon, alive when it happened, to chase the unending. It’s deep a tendon, this swanic portrait, a fist filled with grass. The nights are burgundy, but often sober, to stress the weeds. I imagine life, a jar of dragonflies, the hunt for extravagance; to live flamboyance, as buoyant as youth, carving a wooden block. I venture to see a diary, musing over Scriptures, and comparing literatures. I’m heavy in hindsight, as hidden to self, the heavens, hells, and hardships. I hope the deepest feelings, pulled through intellect, agog with learning; as not to perish, the means to an end, floating blindly.

I think of me—and see you, the bone of my flesh; where eyesight—is spirit-sight, a heart filled with flutters. It’s right to love, to feel exposure, the timber of this drumbeat; for this is art, that inner opera, the summit of joyous sorrow. Oh the paradox—figured by writers, to know the definition; for words are jewels, to select with grace, to enter dimensions; but more to heart, to love you more, to celebrate this day; for I feel—and therefore I am—a thinking vessel; so never lose it—this thing called thoughts, to condition for righteous; to see this symbol, bleeding through waves, the fortune of an outcome.

It takes for time, when vows are uttered, to underestimate the pain. I never would, to shatter a temple, to play pretend; and still the same, to rove the world, where words are few; but fly the seasons, to grace the flowers, to plant for seeds; else for richness, the deepest studies, to tweet a few meals; and feel for circuits, where I push a tad bit, to hear the laughter; to know for days, the river’s regrets, but not for your soul.      

Outrun the Rivers That Fall

It couldn’t be real, as consecrated souls, to lose so dearly; but ever for truth, this vast echo, dancing forbidden lights; where something hassles, a mental fragment, to still believe—the ocean waves, the manikin postures, that too far distant memory. It’s even you, a swan turned lady, where the CD skips; for oh the nights, and oh this life, the constant metaphors; to see the anguish, to relish in a smile, the aches and bruises. We escape to enter; so cherish your life; where the mind is friendly; else to stumble, at war with self, grieving our presence. The days are young—stressing after stars, and sullen acquaintances. Oh the richness, even the oddness, a bit ill-equipped; for the years passed, lost in public solitary, to enter the world; where cultures clash, to feel for captive, those twilight years. We rarely see it—the skyward scars, to forsake a fortune—to perish a legacy; where tears fell, to water the tulips, to fertilize soil. Oh the darkness, to share with souls, this mind—this demon—this something!     I’m finding more—that thoughts protrude, to peek through features; and oh the tyranny, to trek through hells, to finally exit limbo; and caves are walking, to embody humans, the richest possessions; to fever the dead, to hear the screams, walking through hallways; to see for lamps and lanterns and lighters—this brilliant light, favored in tears, to rescue the heart-pearl.     We speak of life, even the mysteries, to reach for that kiss; and time be gentle, to court for souls, as delicate as wet grass; for this is heart, to fever—a frantic family.     Oh to reach it, forever that chase, where humans must worship; for this is soul, a telic design, to breathe our own mirrors.

It was a cold winter, to lose a friend, wrapped in war-scars; oh for mental, that seesaw nausea, to vomit upon sand.     It was a cold winter, to bombard a stranger, to frighten a family.     The shame protrudes, to land in mire, to reach the confusion; but oh the lights, flashing through darkness, to guide the intellect.     It couldn’t be, over a decade, peering at three pages; but oh it is, the purple stars, to befall a soul; where if not love, than not child, even a spaceship trial.     I see for madness, the texture of pudding, to disregard life; where souls are yearning, splayed upon concrete, trekking through echoes.     Oh the terror, the blackish ponds, and burgundy eye-shields.     It wasn’t life, to finally breathe, to hear the definition; and it wasn’t love, to finally feel, to hear the association. We piecemeal, a host of feelings, to become a lexicon; otherwise, the days are blurry, the nights are frantic, and we grope restlessly.     I knew you in A.D., to give you wisdom, where you taught the gods; and now the years, fractured by pain—and we play pretend; for its ever right, if I can’t see, to live the shadow; and it’s ever right, if I can’t feel, to kill a soul.     I await the laughs, to see it for money, and ever taught that way; but this is life, a beating heartache, to outweigh injustice.     We paint it grayly, to find it in beige, to witness a miracle; where hell comes forth, to control a soul, those sky-blue threats; and this is life, to cabinet a scar, where minds are surfing Hades; and something called, to pop the balloon, to see us reaching—and ever a parachute, to take this journey, the hope for safety; and oh the faith, to race the forest, to outrun the rivers.