I
found her in silence, as looking distraught, pulled back by life. I cried in
person, as to flee the self, staring at justice: this lustful woman, a series
of nightmares, a partial nymph. We cried the silence, a moment in time, glaring
at tattoos. The walk was stern, as posed in stillness, to see a senseless
grief; as for sense bound, this hell of hounds, an unarmed soul. I graphed a
feeling, filled with anger, for the heart went astray; but what for norms, to
want for days, this provocative woman. She stirred a poet, this tenuous
feeling, as confined to instincts. We laughed in fiction, this V. I. P tour, to
return to nothing. I’ve known so little, this affair of friction, to receive
such a detour: this vault of waves, as teary the measure, a woman held hostage—by
tears the flames, as surely detached, to wrestle within an urging nerve. She
stood in brilliance, a private addict, the treasures of our souls; to find me
torn, as one for sores, in order to build a nation. She withdrew in silence, as
age to beauty, as one familiar. I broke the silence, afraid of eyes, staring at
hips. The tides would shift—a wharf of souls, as yearning for entrance; to
shake for turns, as going deeper, a flood of fevers; to wash the loins, as
found in graves, to endure the small death. We live it churned, as seeking a
blank check, a neckline of woes; but still to chase, to thrust within, as
fallin’ into a comma. The earth is young—the sins are great—as dying for a
mirage: the tales of pain, the Greeks of age, the Jews as codifying wisdom. I
have for touch, this inner need, petrified by lust. If not for love, than a
week of tears, to agitate prose; to die this life, a moment in time, to regret
the future; as one to mourn, even Colombo, searching for a thread.
