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?
