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.