Monday, June 13, 2016

Gestures & Wiles

It’s mediocre—as to rebuke justice, as to hope for peace; where she never smiles, or at least it’s rare, this woman of a hundred faces. We’re running thin, aboard a vessel, where gestures are peeking. It was never poker, but sheer the flame, as to witness a breakthrough. I’m not impressed, as one for silence, as one for vocals; to have a dream, where therapy is life, as afflicted upon self; to grow in fractions, this exponential charm, that invades silence. We’ve touched concrete, this abstract fusion, to paint in 3D—this life of owls, as watching the nights, to reappear come sunfall. I thought to love it, this ambivalent feeling, as one a bit for sickness; to play its worth, and morph into a giant, if only a gripping palm. It mustn’t be life—this game of pieces, pushing and pulling rooks; as if to castle, to outwit fate, to put it off but a moment. It couldn’t be real, this school of manners, where most are pantomime; to have and fold, and fold with grace, this pace of serpents.

It’s been some time, as living through deaths, to capture but one song; this inner delusion, as to entertain, if but a moment in space. I cherish our prose, and prize our spirits, fully infused by merits. Indeed, to drift—as born in gridlock, galloping a vat of stars; to have for seconds, this one enchant, as furious as a dying love; to look and perish, in golden eyes, as one to condemn the sun. It’s been so long, as to ponder gestures, as one known for mania; in which to love, this feral avoidance, to know for a purple tear. I wipe and wane, somewhere the crowd, echoing this deep silence; where hearts quake, and souls print, a wealth of mystic casualties. I’m going afar, as sitting in stillness, this therapeutic dynasty. I’m falling adrift, while gripping a chair, alert to finger a spade. Its myth to life, and soul to dagger, as one pierced by sheer particles; to love it more—this vague encounter, where too much is overkill, and too little is dearth; but this is life, asearch for balance, where the first word lingers in blood.   

Strumming a Harp

By language we speak to audibility and coherence. To compose to feel understood, in spite of language applied. A person spends years misunde...