He
wanted for greatness, to find for mercy—this inner tension;
to
have joy, this feral woman, this torn instinct.
It
couldn’t be real, to hold for secrets, this woman in a shell;
as
if for life, this inner campfire, blazing in private quarters.
He
loved her more, this outer sorrow, as perceived as humble;
to
chime with violence, this buried essence, as thrown as biblic science.
We
live it blindly, to know for nothing, scratching at scabs.
He
had to feel it, to meet her once, this woman he died for;
as
flesh to bone, this cryptic affair, to listen to an inner voice.
She
took to madness, this valiant dance, at once a fugitive.
It
couldn’t be real, this craving for liquor, to meet a stranger
—after
years of love, this mental covenant, bent on destruction;
to
find for gods, this length of terror, an orgasm in a glass.
I
met her thrice, this vibrant vixen, as alive as shadowed death.
We
loved afresh, as born to perish, where earth gave the ghost.
It
mustn’t be real—this loving charm, such beauty as poison;
to
have for comforts, this moment of valves, spinning through infinite lines.
We
must retreat, as to gain composure—this woman as a dream;
for
life is madness, this inner paradox—our deepest confliction;
to
love but thrice, this skyward banner, as nearly unconscious.
I
see us clearly, imbued with liquor, as chiming greatly, to forsake our
neighboring arms.
I
love us more, this breaking of doors, searching for a preconception;
as
dying boldly, to hear each word, this drizzle of sentences.
He
took for courage, to tame this fortune, as to lose his sanity.
It
couldn’t be real—as to love a monster, that close to breaking home;
but
this is life, our bravest endeavor, that closer to seeing self;
where
love is death, our deepest claim, our deepest love.
