We
found us, longing for Netherlands, as two unfound and swearing a life-vest; and
so unjust the hearts that beat; and so for justice the hearts that wave—a
moment in time, unbroken by breakage, storming through heart-chakras. We’ll
pray this heart-mare, reaping the unsown, and sewing the unreaped, as one
untrapped, as one unraveled, as one demystified—and so mystified, as to
struggle resistance, as to challenge fortification. There was life in travesty,
the hearts racing infinity, as to chime with non-existence. There was such loss, to never have embarked—upon the
ultimate ritual; and truth must live, for souls to chase—after something as
gray as concrete facts. Oh to personalize such sadness: I love as one
contained, or even afraid, and struck by mystery—to stumble as he urinates, to
bundle as he contemplates, to realize that heaven is turned by gestures. We
look on, adjudging this favor, but torn by participation; that something as
active, to manipulate fey, to find a mirror seeking; where truth is pivotal, as
claimed by fools, foolish enough to believe; but less to hesitance, for more
the relevance, it was never our youth; and reach to light, adjudged by psychs,
and excavated by therapists. We love in spirit, afraid of such a word, sketchy
to feel it: this radical motion, the fever of heartbeats, as one greeted by a
shadow; to perish with grace, the arts of a friend, floating an inner
continent; so never is close, as close as never, this churning for inward
secrets; but truth exists: I know for not, as one to break us free; and this is
magnets, this inner tugging, these minds of tug-a-war.
