To
cherish a miracle, the swan of our eyes, as powerful as gestures; to flourish
as miracles, the light in our gaze, as florid as ornaments. We love you
seeking, with wings spread, and pierced at the core. I tremble the outcome—of
one so wise, drilling me for the reasons why?—to
live as grandiose, to affront a psych, as turquoise as innocence; and die the
flavor—as cotton and steel, the paradox of our lives. It mustn’t be—the wealth
of rains, to court such wisdom; and yet it is, the woes of why, as permeated as black clouds; to feel the clarity, in
something so dark, to wonder of jurisdiction. Ours is campfire, the music of
flames, a covenant with alien existence; to chant through life, and read
Bukowski; and die come life, reaching for a stimulant, something as innocuous
as coffee. I see you as sunlight, a mother’s jewel, a father’s friend; to
conquer pianos, the rhythm of that tune, a magazine of principles. I see you as
hinge, to unravel a soul, somewhere in the distance; to fuel this life, a tulip
on a cloud, to enfold our legacy; but it couldn’t be, for such few words, that
a symbol loves a swan; and yet it is, the poetry of our museum, the opera of
our grievances; and float this wand, as combined with trinkets, to settle in
Scriptures. The love is warm, the poison of weeds, an influx of promise; to
chime our hearts, as mother’s friend, to awaken the sentiments; and charge this
soul, with a sibling’s care, to court our Savior; where this is grand, the
organ of churches, to seek their favor. We’ve torn this lot—a symphony held
high, the wings of a bluebird; to perish this lot, filtered in concentration,
to seek out the horizon; and live we must, spinning as a triangle, wiping the
bench of weeping.
