We
say it in silence, this thing of chances, alert towards forgiveness; to be
granted this life, as something reluctant, as something cherished; where most
omit it, as to hold to death, our necks stiff with envy. We must avail, else
for troubles, as far reaching as Africa; where children worship, while fathers
perish, where mothers sacrifice hearts. Our souls are numbness, featured as Warlocks,
conversing with Mystic Wiccans; to convert to Lights, this three in one, where
remnants operate as spirits. It’s never freedom, from this grand illusion, as
culling out such realities; to have this vision, this marvelous woman, walking
the seven seas; wherewith, are virtues, a star as a dream, feathered in
sorrows; as gripped in holiness, this glow of farewells, this inner jettison;
to forgive a stranger, prior to a love one, for the stranger offers promise. Oh
for heaven’s path, steeped in silken darkness, alive as if barely insane; the
trickles of infusion, as our Mystic at a desk, alert to maintaining
composure. I deviate. Are we there—drenched in realities, a
product of mother’s illness; to have for death, this melodic grief, as baked in
father’s psyche. I saw this woman, as a grandiose countenance, to see this
woman, as a psychotic feature. It’s coming in segments, to have a friend—this
one to comfort stages. I know of truth—this thing of souls, to see it in a
mirror. We seem so large, gifted in mania, if only to emit intelligence. I
thank the psychs, for such exhibition, to forewarn through animation; this
thing of tables, where forgiveness wanes, from those so far the mountain. I return. I wanted forgiveness, for something so
gray, to realize it belongs to nature; so why for death;—this need to feel, as
if wrong for rightness? I must explain, as deep the scar, embedded in genetics;
so why such pain, where medicine lives, as a viable force? I ask with purpose,
to jog our wits, despite the myriad of infractions; for I’m not at fault, to
have lived a bruise, where insights prove dramatic. It’s a tragic field, where
hell is law, and one must cringe his life; as born to illness, destined to live
this life, where God is a palm-print away. I sip to ponder, the longest love,
ten tiers above sanity; where art is life, to imbue a swan, but death has
taking the hem; as such to invoke, the spirit of Thecla, if only to ignite the
spirits of fey. I deviate. I couldn’t forget;—this crossing of roads,
as one to see his future; where Love was bold and fearless, adrift a scar, as
benefiting the arts; albeit, for love, I’ve moved from love, to embrace this
mystic passion. It mustn’t be life, and it must be life—this grand piano—this
harp of dreams—this brief vacation.
