to
feel this life, chasing beige stars, trekking this vast in-between; with wants
to vanish, if merely in moments, to caress southern comforts. we can pierce the
skies, through sheer concentration, wherefrom, this art; to die for love, this
driven womb, as intelligent as, Simone, as clever as, Virginia Woolf. It
mustn’t be us, this inner constellation, this whirlwind of merry-go-rounds; it
mustn’t be death, to clog our lungs, as struggling through a blackdamp—to hold
with such fervor—this miracle affair—the boldest phantoms! we flip a coin, our
darkest emotions, to prescient this life; as born to live, as scuffing dice,
this aged old prophecy. I remember innocence, cloaked in deception—this fear of
abandonment; to grip variety, as losing self—a child in the wings. I fathom
earaches, while pride swells, as sorting through briers; where death is
flagrant, this inner fugitive, while danger lurks. It mustn’t be us, so late in
life, wrestling over a decade of woes. It’s more a millennia, this fevered
affair, to loathe his guts; where essence suffers, while souls crumble, as
scrabbled as hidden messages. I needed love, to perish this love, as opened as
a pair of wounds. I needed us, this fair attempt—to outwit tragedy; therewith,
are scars, which structure brains—that inner fire—as desired as unseen, this
math of mazes, to read it spelled in glitter! It mustn’t be us, buried in
turmoil, this game of pretends; where bodies speak—this velvet language, an
alphabet of symbolic letters; to pull at unawares, that innocent soul, as to
ruin our motives. it must have been us, as holding so vaguely, this thing we
soon released, this aberrant love! It was easy to vanish, for death was so
prominent—the wounded flames!—as torn as justice, or one man’s jury, or rather,
a judge that fails to study. Oh where for mercy, to yearn for comforts, as forgiven
a thousand times!—
