The
pain of this glory, to enter Jerusalem, as one so young; to pardon this breach,
this inner ambrosia, the harvest of our minds! I sought a phantom, to fawn for
weeks, aglow this travesty. We know not the weather, as to care for weather,
aloof our daily activities. There’s a swan, afloat an island, at peace but a
moment in grief; to act as if—the stars are ruling—this impetuous planet. I try
to fathom, the likes of mishaps, for one to do it the same. We stumble and not
know it: the knotted spasms, the glorious pains, the shame of our nightmares;
as one favored by riches, as to offset the conscience, as to mingle with death;
so oh the mercy, bestowed upon fate, the measure of the hollowed souls! If not
for your love, the heart would retreat, to watch as life beats the empty soul;
for it couldn’t be drugs, to fever such hate; and it couldn’t be liquor, to
fever such ignorance; and yet it is, the sloths of light, as paranoid as a
guilty mind; but we love it more, the weird reigns, the mysteries chains, as one
courted for altars. What aims to come, for two so crooked, living as if the
world is ignorant? I dare to ask, and dare to laugh, as one misunderstood; to
read the irony, to fault us as vexed, and still yearn this gray forgiveness. It
couldn’t be real, this alien enchant, to love as long as love is blind. Do as we choose, but freedom the souls, as
caught in webs; for this is mercy, especially for us, as two unworthy of
kindness; else for hells, to blame the worlds, as curls unravel. He gave me
dung; you gave him love; as a way of saying thank you! I couldn’t believe it,
as it crossed the ears, to know for such hatred; but the lines are long, filled
with regrets, to dribble the last song.
