What
for this life, as stranded to disaster, that closer to kissing; where it
couldn’t be real, this inner friction, to gaze at running eyes. I love for
absence, as this inner world, where all is probable. It wasn’t us, fluttering a
heart, as to push sorrow; and it wasn’t us, scratching at souls, as to will a fortress. I’m ever that closer,
to clumping grass, as to nurture a butterfly; these beige wings, this dark
tint, this ruby castle; as to love a phantom, as swooping within, to enliven a
heart throb. It mustn’t be real, this fever of phantoms, to excavate caves. I
wish to go deeper—as dying this life, where joy is a friend; this marvelous
woman, though cut and abused, as to maintain disposition. It must be tears,
this tetras affair, as to dig so deeply. The waves have channeled, as so
detached—from a beating heart; to give a laugh, where laughter is sin, this
thing needed desperately; to have for moments, a reason for force, to endure
this coming session. I love you born, ever this rebirth, as standing so
distant; but this is closeness, to reign these eyes, a bit too close to punish.
It couldn’t be real, as to witness, Trethewey, knitting every sentence; and it
couldn’t be real, this want for wants, as the want of wants; where death is
cycles, as seen in bibles, this far away wisdom. I’ve come to you, as pleading
for secrets, to garner a response; this cryptic language, as uttered in spirit,
these dice fretting a psyche. I heard a cry, while sipping life, the wails of
an inner soldier; wherewith, is pain, this never for closure, to attempt for
neutral. It mustn’t be us—this long goodbye, as mourning our circumstances; to
see for measure, our deepest fears, staring at naivety; to have for hurts, this
inner world—curling in a dream!
