Oh
for crystal gems,
something
as infusion, a root upon color;
inasmuch
as faith, our grace of endurance
—to
purpose for rain, this fall of angels,
even
this hellbound aroma. We love at a
distance, as not to stumble, a tad bit fastidious. Our rose is topaz—as long
for living, a store pictured in purgatory; for what was it, to seize a soul, as
naked as unbelief; to grip through pausing, a vessel in a garden, for a name to
whisper? We spin in wonder, to wander through rituals, to lace a windward wave.
Oh to find us, this immortal task, to say something universal; something as
winter cries, or something transparent, without forfeiting authenticity. It was
ever our turn—to trickle into caves, as slaves to an impartial; but what for
dreams, to see us in symbols, as starry-eyed whirlwinds?
I
need for rising, to sooth her soul, as blemished as the fifth century. I need
for purpose, the grave of his woes, painted imperfectly; to scroll through
tears, the youth of her life, speckled with long-stocking joys. I see us
weaving, the arts of nights, that torn unto salvation. There’s something there,
the deepest secrets, as the comforts of, Moses; to die the kef, this inner
breakage, to arise as day hawks; where this is love, a slanted thought, to
amend the greatest souls. Was it
death—the entire journey, a gurney for a heartbeat; or was it life, to shift
and shop, that closer an orgasm? It must be more, than this fatal sting, as
bright as clashing attire. We move to die, afraid of this life, avoiding even
mirrors; but how for hell, to comfort a feeling, that torn the outskirts. We
flirt and dig, the terms of frigid, to give unto to salvation; so perish not,
the rivaled love, dripping into a blackout.
