We
bounce back—that infernal leap—to garner joys; to flow like light, that
particle of us, a group of canons. I fell this earth, so young my life, as one
born too early: the deep regrets, the hostile liquids, that star running the
cosmos. I hid love, to fathom love, to push passed the privies; where gods
heard—the goddess speak—of charms this life. I rose this night, to alter these
days, the last of a dying breed. It couldn’t be us, as once so intimate, to
loathe the draperies. I’m sick for love, scratching for pulling, every dread an
entity; to fly like love, to rapture a vest, as one imposed upon; and love
knew, the hidden crevice, to rake a nightmare; where all was flavors, that
distant river, to pitch a tent; and there you are, clad in skywear, preaching a
sermon. We pause to watch, the fire stirring, a cloud at our sides; to filter
the grays, as black and whites, the flux of lucky charms. Was it us—that
flaming sequence, to search for a repeat; to chase like falcons, the roots of
prayer, this internal experience. The scalp sweats, the heart pulsates, the
mind is pearls; that deep gem, a series of diamonds, to love a stranger; for
nothing more—than ghostly spirits, as one so inclined. It couldn’t be, this
hint of love, punctured by reality; and yet to live, we must to die—this poetic
love; the melody of tears, as melic the whispers, as telic the design; to see
for wisdom, the long winters, to never utter the goodbyes; for this is life, a
vault in a brain, a volt to a soul; as born this way—the days of old, as
misunderstood. It wasn’t us, during the a.m. to chime with grace—a wave for
waves! I thought it real, my inner thoughts, this person’s dreams; as one
awakened, by such the feeling, this inner manic.
