I
love us flying, as heart to soul, this graveyard thump; to know for nothing,
this inner swan, digging for turquoise oil. This vibrant love, as pure as, Theresa, our inmost communication; as grand as psychs, as veiled as wisdom,
this precious invitation. I love us dying, for such is rebirth, this fiery
rapture; to feel this heart, thrusting chi, as to ignite a spiritual fever. Was
it us—this fleet of omens, too afraid to sing! I love us more, this strange
affect, as filled with fatigue; for pain is potent, this caution we can’t see,
as one searching for Jesus. I felt a thump, to feel for presence—our essence
glowing through windmills. It can’t be real, this patient force—this outlined
majesty; as born to live, through a thousand deaths, this kef of flying souls.
I remember her face—as asking favors, to bestow upon a swan. I heard her voice,
as cleaving to flights—this woman twice his wisdom; if only for light, as to
tiptoe a fulcrum—this spectrum of spirituality. It mustn’t be us, this inner
fable, as real as fluttering chi; to see this wave, embedded in dreams, as
hearing this Spirit. We thump a heart, as something so vague, to ignite a
furnace; where love is sewn, as hurt tends to blossom, where arts are taken for
granted. This thunder is us—this dream is us—this flame is eternal! I sit to
ponder, this inner heart-flood, to reckon a sacred force; where love is vague,
this natural affect, to maintain distance; so please ignite it, as never
before, to surge and swarm through a billion hearts. We fathom magnitude, a
ballad to a soul, as to picklock a cliff. It couldn’t be real, to feel this
source, as charged as claret wine; to flip through tensions, as born to love,
as to garnish such colors; where light is human, to infuse a dream, as one
bleeding for closure.
