I
have this fear—this needs to speak, even to a phantom. It’s grave in
silence—this portal of dreams, engaged in gestalt techniques; as not to panic,
this broken chapter, where words slant perception. I feel encryption—to rummage through toils,
as to restrain self; for shapes are forming, wherewith, are passions, this
infinite mural. It couldn’t be life, as love is vague, a soul at a pulpit; to
feature memoirs, draped in armoires, this simplistic chaos. Our design is
labor, to capture millions, our salaries our distinctions—as even identity,
this upper-class rain, our futures painted upon a check-stub. Was it pain—this vast adventure, to ruin
an auburn summer? I ask—this inner
chantress, mourning at a bedlight; for love was gray, as spoken in concretes,
to utter the word, Never; where time
spoke of promise, this outward opera, as disappointing as childhood; to which,
was chaos, this immortal friction, to precipitate love. I stand a precipice—this long
infusion—this angelic anguish! It couldn’t be real, a life of this magic, a
group of selfish mystics; as dying for pleasures, this short retreat, this
ember flickering afar; to grasp and fly—this realm of eternities—forever this
distance! I can’t but love her, as
awash’d in mischief—this chief of passions; for pain is graphic, if only to fix
it—this thing of feathers; where this is grief, to read and panic, where fevers
stir. We stand agog, as to grog a mind—this fission of fallen parts. I must
confess it, to know we lived it—this dreaded disgust; in which, it brews, this
face of intellect, veiled in sheer distrust. We move in stealth, this vibrant
hell, as to shoot a star, this mandala affair! It couldn’t be real—this favored dream—our
inmost enchants.
