I’m
afield the burgundy skies, where all is amiss, ever and anon this shame. I took
it for granted: the beige lights; the barrels of rain; that too distant brook.
I clave to dreams, at such a young age, to ignore calamities; but oh to meet
her, to curdle a passion, by sheer delight; and oh to see her, the fane of
glory, a freshet of a soul. I gallop sourly, to win a moment, to accumulate
sadness; as joy this measure, to love regardless, to know about friendships.
It’s the garth of gardens, a million to a soul, a ravine to a mind; to trek
therein, to paint a canyon, as midnight cries! The long hellos, the short
goodbyes—are these not signs? I love us girth in jacinth grays, as to raise
this parish, as to kindle glory. Become a sponge, as spread this fever, to
stomach truths; a unit, even a particle, or rather an atom of a vase. The veil
moves, to discern life, to needle a vest; as that’s for heart, this inner
graph, to measure all things; whereby the trust of self, a wheel within a
whistle, to churn the midday winds; to walk a wire, as weary a soul, as filled
with bliss. Its lissome eyes,
often overlooked, until one pauses; to pierce a soul, with kind the act, gripping
a tussock. The vale is paved, whereat are tears, to saturate conscienceness. I
was outworn, running through ruth, a vessel intoxicated; whereby was pain, for
sundown prayer, a pumpkin within a worm; but what for joy, to feel her
slipping, as to live the straightjacket; this life of woes, as in-between liquor,
the ladder of Joseph; but this is life, this raspy future, engaged in madness;
to want for love, a flower upon a frog, to morph into a prince; whereat is joy,
a modicum of comfort, as running from mirrors. I carry a theory, as born a
falcon, longing for eagles: the world is pained, as to search for signs, as
incapable of reading; but what for patience, to endure the hells, to hear that
love suffers. I pray for mothers, as to greet fathers, to sandpaper the fangs.
Its life for deaths, as to fan the fog, a key to a lamp; to feel it churn, the
sadness of gods, the desert of manna. I’m there, Love—as born through strife,
as to love without warning!
