We
yearn for deepness, this inner cut—dwelling through us; to breach the dawns,
this inherent fever, something akin to justice; as born this life, this
antiquated mischief, a product of mother’s sadness; to perish a heartbeat, to
rise a soulquake—this external propane. I love us drifting—a sore so confused,
to see us and lose words; as cords aflame, this mercy screaming madness, as
alive this sequence. There’s a tour for ghosts, as giddy as newborns, as
provoked as psychotics. I mourn the absence, as to love the presence—this
internal shifting; to drift a planisphere, this inner parallel, as placed in
cocoons; to ponder for years, this ride to Jerusalem, as one intoxicated by
death; the breath of millions, this outer honeymoon, this cloister of monks; to
have but prayers, this inner subjective, as to manifest in objectives. I see us
churning, as to petition mercy, and too far to retreat. I see us sculpting, a
field of young swans, as two desperate to conceal life; but torn illusion, this
fraught pressure—one bewitched by sheer beauty; to ruin a castle—this thrashing
light, this tortured intimacy. We cry and crave—this grave of chaos, as
confused and dangling from the inconsistent; to have but thoughts, as manifest
in actions, alive come night-blues. We’re tearful and awestruck, asearch for
alliance, that closer to forfeiting faith; but this is death, as to hold for
something, to render fruition. It’s metaphysical, this brand of souls—the
substance of a thousand poems; to rave the insane, therewith, a branch, raging
against credulity. It mustn’t be arms, to reveal such contempt—this motive
founded in resistance; to have but love, this inward camouflage, as subtle as
ascetic gestures; wherewith, is mystery, this reminiscent pathos, as one
confined to embarrassments. I must to feel us, this drifting menace, as
disguised as an instant feature; to drift in calmness, as confused to nature,
as communicating through brains.
