I
love you—to hold you, even to argue. We chime the velvet rose, a bit confused,
screaming at platinum mirrors. I saw sorrow, to infuse light, to watch a
metamorphosis. We through wands, to cast spells, at love like death. Its
butterfly wings, thrumming a piano, a mandala of intimacy; as grave this
midnight, as pulled asunder, yanked and tugged and cast astray; to come for
joy, this lotus of tears, thriving in mire. Oh for tattooed pains, to dig for
essence, whereat, the waves; this brave fever, thrusting and dying, a moment in
a memory. It’s ever our opera, as pangs rupture, to relish their presence: that
turquoise anchor, to gyrate for death, this small entity. We crawl this vision,
a room of kids, to wonder of so much. I can’t to please you, as one crying to
please you; it’s lapwing weeds, for terrible joys, to love this stranger; as
desperate to appease, as losing lands, the angst of this bliss; that fatal
turn, to hold for secrets, the eyes of our neighbors. I hear us speak, of such
the times, when love was a miracle; to sit as watching, to ask for fevers, to
than retreat. Aside for love, we capture love, to challenge love. It’s ever to
wilt, this glorious lotus, to rebuild a fortress. I know not the waves, this
cycle of us, a tulip on a cloud; as to feel alien, as one detached, from the
life that we live. Its miracle diamonds, to favor this love, to loathe this
love; as feeling confused, as to adore this love, as vexed through tornadoes. I
entered a dream, to feel this tug, yanking at dreams. The cinema screams, the
matinee cries, and the aftermath laughs; while we wail, as wrapped in love,
this pursuit of love; that fatal life, to love like fools, at one with
infusion. I love you patient, at one with love, this flux of hell-bent.
