You
colored me—in spite of tragedy.
We
abandoned art, abed an abysmal fire, this chant as beautiful as ballet; to know
such majesty, and angered by its depth, for ours were the flames of dalliance.
I
digress.
I
remember such agony. It was so hard to breathe; and our ballet, was suffering
from blisters. It shouldn’t be real: a comely star; a velvet fork; two persons
split in halves; this division of fours, as an attempt to mend all parts,
staring at the calligraphy of gestures.
I
return.
We
abandoned art, with much regard, enflamed by the specters of lust; to have for
such failure, and still persevere, but stress deep in our shoulders; as to fall
to grace, laden in steepness, afore a monster’s passion. I can’t speak of love,
even to ask of love, but I demand of love: this feeling of undersiegement; this
sublime frustration; this need for seamanship; else a thousand woes, for a
million waves, for one clad in mercies. It’s ever this turn, spinning through
raceways,
as
to realize something caged: the souls of nun; our wistful brains; to see the
left has mingled with the right—as to infuse a passion.
I
digress.
Could
you see us this way; as filled with such abuse, as believing we have achieved
our goal; for this endless war, and such rippling vibrations, in tuned with
this metaphysical cavity? I used to die at seconds; it has become minutes; this
volume stirring through loins; to know of hate, to jettison her soul, to turn
us over to demons; to walk with you, through veiled nightmares, even a
television chanting its dream.
I
return.
We
abandoned art, this thing of persons, even our personalities; to perish with
pains, a finger to the sun, to indicate responsibility; where love was patient,
albeit, rootless, for our mirror’s scream of discontentment:
