As
early as cradles, this burning fever, as filled with fire, as flaming in water;
where hell set its course, to overthrow innocence, as something destined for
triumph; to feel for ghosts, this power in humans, a feature of cadence.
I
love us, ever born so dirty, related in blood, to meet as retreating, a gothic
home, grieving the matrimony. I died to love us, knitted in features, our
brains merging as one; to feel as earth, the beats of this heart, gliding
through traffic. It’s ever this thought, abandoned to terror, to meet a fleet
of memories; as to war this nature, in dire preparation, as born to fist
fights; where a woman moans, as to groan in spirit, riding the great dragon. It
came as chi, to morph into spirit, where resonance alarmed a nation. I cried
his death, mourning as to die, this infraction of souls; whereat, a nightstand,
bleeding his essence, filled with demons; to gesture a psych, as pleading
forgiveness, for a time uncommitted. I uttered a name, as to measure a cross,
to walk through and shiver. It’s mere practice, to feature death, as a form of
strength; to feel for tension, this grave intuition, reading through, Douglass.
I loved her pain, shivering in silver—the moon as witness; to crave neuroses,
as a form of growth, to panic nearly psychotic; as roaming through streets,
paranoid and charged, to arrive at a tavern; where liquor was libation, and
tears were affection, streaming through transmigration. It couldn’t be us, this
freshet of woes, captured in tender graves; therewith, a jar, filled with
light-flies, as to guide the way. It was mere a voice, to electrocute a nation,
as to lead into a terror-dome; where mothers grew weary, as fathers grew teary,
to see us dying for tablets; as crying night-traumas, filled with somber hopes,
to see things morph into change. I need to speak, but years mold distance,
where we become complaisant; as cringing alone, filled with prayer, to feel
this thunderstorm; where daughters sort through thoughts, influenced by
positions, where one is afraid to lose. I couldn’t but see—the hells of souls,
striking through purgatory; to think as he writes, this meter graphed within,
to usher forth a night-wave.
