We
loved as passion—this fatal addiction, as unborn pagans; to phantom this life,
as more deceit, a series on a screen. We favored injustice, to claim
perfection, as naked this fever; to find us there, professing loveless, as
professing love. Say it not—to harness this vest, a bullet as a tear; to stir
wild oats, to whittle wild oak, as two that far from love. It’s the First Lady,
as driven to sin, pleading for Vice Presidency. It’s a southern slur, to drag a
soul, the feathers of hell. We couldn’t find us, as near as follicles,
searching the great gulf; as chasm to soul, a spinning tsunami, a Buddhist in a
hut; to reckon the ceilings, a nun nearby, as to give a secret. We’re soon
naïve, as if the holy isn’t lustful. I paid attention, to feature a dream, an
office filled with power; a love for science, as eye to eye, to court for
marriage. What was given, aside for sinning, as given prior; for this is life,
to expect so much, for something given freely; it mustn’t be, this sheer
affect, to repeat a cycle. We disappear—as fading phantoms, to reappear—as
sainted ghosts. Reason is so lonely, amongst the crowd, as they favor a
doormat. The feet were wiped, where eyes held fury, as to finally explode; as
earth shifted, the cosmos drifting, a woman near a star. We wanted more,
despite the lovers, to get things in order; to live it kindly, to converse the
worse subjects, to then pass out. Where was life—as bold as death, to expect
loyalty? We must to live it, to ask abuse, for one to falter—as a forbidden
legend, where years were bland, as to thirst for flavor; but couldn’t leave, as
this is treason, as this is forbidden; to meet our own, to see the sickness, as
confused by power.
