I
stray from saying it
the
love of this bride
that
battered in soul
that
tattered in mind.
It’s
the scholarship of prose, and even the lectures, to hypnotize the blueprints;
to pause at commas, as if mystified, by something accustomed to ourselves; to
have fallen ill, a web of hives, the welts of eczema. We know its nerves,
grounded in emotions, and stationed in various tensions. It seems
incumbent—this miracle of activity, inherited through parents—to live as
shadows, that peer into darkness, as one floating the abyss. I felt a kiss, the
bliss of this nightmare, where a kiss is energy. I felt a stream, where silence
is patience, the agony of a kiss. I’ve loved in absence, as if forgotten, for
we desire the body—where flesh is perfect, the ache of mental shrouds, that further
from unveiling; to perish the mountains, as if fountains pocket tears, the
course of somewhat the outcast. How to reach her—this distant stare, to swear
to a mirror?—that grand appeal, where the world forfeits the ghosts, as if
seclusion as security; and how to reach her, this astute kingdom, fretting over
every gesture? Was it I the wrench of tides—or rather inner mishaps, to adjudge
every motion? I must explain…we often see our insecurities, where a thought
expressed was merely a thought expressed; to fester in a psyche, as something
accidental, where a sore spot was punctured. I know this feeling…that slight
affect, which permeates the entire countenance. It appears that knowledge is
sensitivities, as radiant as a mouth of blisters; where one is rills of
temperaments, and paddles of frustration, leading a desert of wars. Of course
the light—that dungeon of affairs, as blissful as fluctuation; and of course
the darkness, as akin to humans, that channel of initiation; for this is us, as
feeling to be felt, intensifying in feelings; so more the harnesses, to subject
the instincts, alive in that moment.
