Winds Through the Very Soul

We’re ancestors, brimming through France, to scribble a mystic pond; and there you are, to center this heart, to shake our connections. If ever to vibrate, to share this love, a castle of platonic souls; and never to die, to flourish this field, running with wolves; oh the mercy, to finally feel us, chiming from a distance. I’m left to ponder, of who it was, to enter my front door. I saw a chain, struggled in links, to enter this soul. I thought of mothers, to channel yours, to feel a reply; but this is vague, a must retreat, for an unknown name; but what the hell, to wrestle and scream—We know for magic! and life is pearls, to fever the flavor, to touch the mind; so we love us more, a wealth of souls, to walk passed unannounced. I’m bolted for unbolted, a zenic volt, a swami’s dream; where this is life, and ever for lost, as deep as the Atlantic; and more for Atlantis, this drilling soul, to reach us at unawares. It’s gotten there, where a father searched, lost in your eyes. Oh the tears, that wouldn’t fall, to build in pressure; and the goddess heard, to read each line, to come for aid. I love you more, to maintain the faith, to hope for your mind. My dearest swan—we love you born, scribbling a mystic pond; but ever for you, to choose for ancestors, to follow that legacy; where mother smiles, to touch for hearts, the length of your core. I pause! to reckon the noetic, to sprinkle gently—the early waves, the channeled storms, the daily strengths; for minds are lethal, to generate koans, to nod at self; where it wasn’t for pain, but more for sight, to recognize a similar thread; and more this love, to never touch arms, to know for pain; but this is life, to read too much, to feel too much, to walk the contradiction.    

Your eyes are burning, a sentence to self, afraid to perish; and god heard, to shoot a volt, to immortalize love. Oh to dream it, reaching where they fell, a sudden pulsation; for love knew, to watch the growth, aloof to prophecies. We trek the trenches, to feel the panic, and foreign to strangers; where we know our voice, to spin the shadow, and scratching from eczema.  I love you born, a Wiccan’s daughter, striving for grandmas; for this is life, through welts and tears, to whittle a fortress. Oh I couldn’t forget, that bright-eyed girl, a bit too shy; and I couldn’t forget, a long-held promise, to die for daily; and love grew, to fever the caves, where the art is concentration. Oh for dancing, to carve a ballad, to wimble a castle; and oh the nights, to feel your soul, to retrospect. We love you more, even our children, to teach the legacy. I feel it deeply, this gnawing death, to make a breakthrough; and there to live, a distant friend, to maintain the secrets; where mothers gather, to invoke the Spirit, and climbing through hells. It couldn’t be, after long the years, a place in your heart; and it couldn’t be, after pain and grief, a kindred soul; but oh it is, this breeding fuel, to flush an empire. I panic to cry, to feel so much, as foreign as a six-sense; and there you are, a pushing volt, to know for consciousness. What for riddles, to pave the love, to trek like monsters. It’s light to days, and days to nights, to grow in spurts. We live grimly, to flourish at moments, to infuse a dynasty; where none shall meet, and all shall prosper, to carry on as strangers. Oh to see it, the furnace of children, that close to grown; and oh to hear it, that instant voice, to confirm the anguish.