In
turn this mood, to love as fervently, to dig out graves—and churn this life,
the wake of casualties. I fevered
eternity, to perish the public dynasty, staring at stone eyes; oh to capture
that essence, as torn as silk, to camouflage disaster—as one hellbound, the
gutters of existence, to proceed this lifeforce. Show not a picture—to enslave a caption,
pictured in a mind; the fear of painting, an invisible portrait, to chase this
invisible portrait; but oh to live it—as one infused, by such a foreign portrait. I can’t find it, this elusive mirror, to
stipple an image; to sign this rain, as one to participate—in lakes of
ceilings; where decades pass, to wrestle the same demon, as to muse upon
mindcaves and fireflames the waves of internal grains. Our tableau is immortal, to repeat through
lives, this existential chase—the pace of forever, to master by few, where a
sage watches, or maybe three, as cultured as, I’m not here, stirring through the dark minutia; for oh the
mirrors, to capture a glimpse, or better a glint—of this filth towards blessings.
Why such mud—to surface such glory, to
return to marsh—the lands of pain, and running far, a scar upon a heartbeat—to
see your eyes, mourning this paradox, at loss to heal me; where this is
patience, that mature cry, to dig the graves—and till the soils. I pass joy, to capture rain, to grow into
turmoil; to finally fly, to ponder the intervals, where some are
unfeeling. I see a splinter, to
purchase the superglue, to mend but a moment. It’s getting heavy, to hear your voice,
the choice of your calm; and never our souls, wherever our souls, that class of
fools; to want results, to give so much, to piecemeal the fragments; and die
this night, to love a swan, an image of our blood line; where hell is grit, to
courage the storm, a soldier to lose a kingdom.
