Dear Swan

There’s a technique, founded in Namaste, to awaken a fire; whereto, are flames, this inner specter, as such cultic waves. We die to live it—this ancient swan—reborn to life! I see for wings, this floating sky, a relic of purposes. It couldn’t be real, our dear enigma, as to flourish a thousand wishes; where love is crucial, as one outfoxed, to break parentheses; as living so freely, a nib to a thought, to wildfire penmanship—this inner calligraphy, this whetstone grace, and chased by visions; to have but one, this inner art, this florid perspective.     Things are crooked, as known, unbearable, a tension to straighten forth; wherewith, are views, as if she couldn’t see—this inconsistent wall. I pause!

It mustn’t be life—this studded dream, as to envision a swan; whereto, are rules, a bit capricious, founded in years of advice; this slanted thing, this froward scream, as to witness such flux; but what for love, this unselfish star, as grounded as a footprint. I ask—as one partial, to that found directly; as to witness, this difficult change, where many opt for chaos; for love is crucial, a torn exhibition—this internal volume. We embed souls, as screaming in silence, as sores awaken stars. We watch to fathom, this future’s quest, astonished by affectation; to see a soul, as sacred as sin, to garner the secrets of trespass! It couldn’t be real—a swanic sage, as engaged as lawyers; to finally dance, as shown for tempers, this furious swan.