Measure
our souls—oh mighty Ghost, our flaming frontiers; as to pain and gravel—this
infinite doubt—as subjugated in faith;—so why so grim, and so lost in grapes,
as one fermenting in terrors. I fathom this breath, as left and smileless,
bricked into a nightmare; and God be good, the fever of this faculty, spinning
and grinning at diamonds; to dig for deep devils, this internal plague, as rich
as a sudden breakthrough. I loved her like gods—so short of articulation, a
woman bred on literature. I fawned and waned—so disoriented—the product of
love; and seasons died, a sigh from the gutters, as buttered in traumas—sitting
and baking, an oven passed its girth—this woman as a grounded memory; to see
for silence, the richness of screams, as one to scold the volume; but I
love—some part of death, attached to some part of life; to have us as illusion,
this faint part of reality, as to skip and mourn the fruits; where earth is
patient, for want of a miracle, addicted to the esoteric; whereto, the
fatal—this bleeding Cross, inebriated off of Zen; to seek at soot, the scope as
sullen, a sudden air salivating. We
cried this night, to know for nothing, this silence pushing at me to speak; as
stars and swans, as smiles and stress, as something afar suffering. It couldn’t
be life, as to lose so much, where the adversary increases; and she loved this
grief, sitting as an island—so alone the public seas; to see for purpose, our
precious hearts, as one captivated by silence. I loved her less, as to accept
her station, as to love her more. It’s the darkest days, as the days of
darkness, shimmering in silence; but know of love, this want to give, even this
gift of love; where vultures soar, and villains sprint, as if the hours were
young; to have for death, this tear of redemption—our Father as one with
humankind. It mustn’t be real, as wax melts into a furnace, as an opiate
trickles from heaven!
