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.
