Wind Winged

Was I blind, Dove—to measure insanity, that closer a thetic breakthrough; to treasure so grayly, the zeal of Zen, to fracture intuition; where love was bold, as mad as midnight, to wrestle the dark haze. I see it as royal, this mystic harp, a stirring of skeletons. The world is panic, and hypertension and a web of anxieties. I long for more, this quiver of a flash, to spend a lifetime chasing—for even a kiss, where eyes were locked, to embrace the esoteric; but was it us, that frequent currency, to charge December; or was it I, a deluded world, to curve the essence? The rills are epic, to keep for secrets, as unknown to its effects; where life is oath, and word by face, to remove the mask—and cry this night, as precious as swans, as stern as mothers; but this is love, the grim by craft, to absorb a flash. I disappear!

I couldn’t see, as thrown as mania, an idol to him-self; to journey rightly, the tours of God, to face the numen; where a totem shattered, to never return, a psych at heated junctures; for mind is law, to curve reality, in which is madness; but art is timeless, this endless design, to feel immortal; to spot the gray, as a hectic feat, as rigid as plight; but what for feelings, to resist for nothing, as lost as unfound islands; for this the waves, an otic message, to float upon an inner cycle; to die and live, the spec of existence, if only a kiss! There’s a silent gong, to erupt suddenly, to offset equilibrium; where souls flatter, this inner perception, singing with songbirds; for tears have fallen, to want for love, to paraphrase, Rihanna; and something lived, to torch the core, as scorched as a burnt steak; to see us flourish, to know for pains, the agony of this need.