If
we must remember, let us live that moment, shackled to something special; our
lengthened selves; our grandiose wishes; even that thing in dreams. I’m
enraptured—this age—and oh so young—influenced by convergence: torn by evil;
enlove with gestures; courting this belle of our ceremony; where urges become
sermons, to rhapsodize of likeness, this swan experiencing our likeness. With a
grimace I measure—our sheer contempt—the fluoride of our pressures; where-was,
this infamous charm, one to appreciate deception; for life was grand, to love
and be loved—so young to perish. We punctured stars, and dangled from
exospheres, tripping and falling through Neptune. We were oh so shy, engaged in
raptures, with kinetics to gaze afar. Our swan—this volt of fevers—as dancing
this pause—this life; in fire this turmoil, to count twenty minutes ‘til—this
internal voyage; where hate infuses, this unrequiting nuance, to receive pure
sorrow; but more we live, as a think-tank for Precious, born to petition our
Flame. Its cosmic love, and comet force, driven to inebriate hearts: this
warming presence; our daughter’s essence; where one is despised for knowing
deceit. This becomes life—to feel so grand, and realize that nothing was
secret. If we must remember, let us live that moment, shackled to something
special; for years blossom, a petal on a swan, but wilting partially; whereat,
are confusions, where adults feel shame, for one so young was altered with
guile; to which, it becomes a legend, for so many years of fomenting, where reality
becomes a mourned intrusion. Oh not to shatter—thereby, to perish, roaming an
internal asylum; where wages are sin, and pleasures are fabricated—this life of
profane anger: the here for now; the there for comforts; even this moment as
reaching with caution. I ask not for love, but rather for decency—for years
have churned in pollution; whereby, the days—register in silence, this vessel
becoming jaded; where love is measured—by words versus actions, where we dare
to escape; but every jitter—proves insanity, where every gesture becomes a
ploy.
My
dearest swan, the nights are segue, pushing to rekindle daylight; for each is a
cycle, reclaimed in psyches, vying for this thing of clarity; wherewith, are
motives, where a future is altered, merely for a partial purpose. I can’t but
see it—as one that lived it, as to hold so much in reserves; but love be
gentle, and love be kind, else love is sheer deception; thereby, to rupture
finally, into parts of labor, where work is required to redeem sanity.
