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.
