Merely
a glance, as love swarmed, this affected heart;—to die this life, as failing to
grief, that touched—a moment!
Oh
for instant love, as grave as death, this internal nightmare; for love knew
nothing—the magnitude of love, as dying this love.
He
couldn’t see, that deep illusion, a glance turning backwards; to see her
dancing, the slightest gestures—his heart a miracle!
We
rushed affairs, but a moment to talk, a mind courting delusions; to imagine
girth, this swarm of bees, enlove with passions; as throbbing in poesy, this
melic cry, this thetic mandate.
He
couldn’t love her—this favorite pearl, for nothing’s about science; this
outward objective, to drift through eyes, a second of love—a master of sex, a
slave of goodness, to complicate a beating drum! It couldn’t be real—a room
filled with reasons, as to pursue a flower; and still it dies, this manic
passion, as reaching as a heart-thought. She heard his name, chanted in
silence, to spring forth at unawares. She prayed in earnest, as clouds
descended—a rush of waves. They perish this love, as born this love; but it
mustn’t be, as it must to be—this long held distinction—this feral crisis.
Oh
for hidden cries—to cherish a verse, to change a meter; where all is panic,
this inner affect, graphed upon falling skies.
She
found him dreaming, as damp with fissions, this matter she must resist; for
times are classic, a life of dreaming, to finally arrive; where love is
pictured, as perfect a tear, this flux of childhood dreams.
Reality
swarms—as killing a high, the pain of pleasurous passions; as to admit a folly,
as grounded in folly, a repeated heartbeat. He couldn’t but see—the gore of love,
a vein to an angel!
