It
hit as a fireball, as to uproot an energy, as to justify transformation. I
couldn’t see her, this brief encounter, an infusion of Christ. The days were
long, this gripping fear, this fatal angst; to pass with nightmares, our
cultured gems, this woman of pain’s power. We dwell in pits, to rise through
caves, this engraved art-land. It’s truly archaic, this mystic magic, to soothe
an inner omen; as born to flesh, asearch a thousand stars, to freely arrive. I
loved her more, to never touch a face, to see her in mere memory; as cut to
bleed, to partake of blood, this cultic wine. I broke a rope, infused with
jewels, as simmering in a kettle. We found for spirits, this cultic enchant, to
flutter a neighbor’s heart. The days were angst, inflamed in bruises, this
woman surging through veins. I can’t but dance—this flood of waves, this
certain thump. It’s more utility, this alchemic charm, as afraid to lose focus.
I love this light, as shimmering in mirrors, to imbue a city of swans. Oh this
melody, this inner cartoon, to know for breaking points; as born to chaos, a
fraction of a soul, pulled by cosmic forces; to see for magic, the brawn of
tears, a moment that turned horrendous. It’s sheer secrecy, the charm of
wolves, feeding on living marrow; to die this light, as filtered through
chants, the rants of phantoms. It couldn’t but exist, this fire of flames, this
woman with a perfect body; to suggest relations, by mere a blouse, this
immortal sex. I claim for arts, the death of fools, to awaken as a living
triumph. I sought to have her, this hinge of persons, alive come this
heartache; to more the poetic, this justice mourning, as distorted for justice.
I remember the day, as sitting in silence, when fireballs ruptured an inner
demon. I churned in paranoia, running through rooms, featured in a series of
agonies. It couldn’t be love, as mere a tattoo, this thing centered in chaos;
the darkness of light, as sheer the passion, as born of energies. I die this
vein, this infinite woman, to never have clenched her thighs.
