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.
