I
saw you at a soul, this dragon of dreams, to awaken in cold sweat. I loved you
in a maze, as one so broken, a fledgling of life. We parted bread, and sipped
the blood, even us as angels; to feel surreal, this cabinet of charms, as
gifted as a destined death. I watched you die, this fury of ashes, where you
morphed into radiance—and oh torn so seriously, a series of Greek myths, a body
of christic idols. Oh the frowardness, as akin to mischief, this terror of
resilience; to have but one soul, so gauged as a monster, so loved as a teddy.
I love us more, this distant feud, conversing and tiptoeing china. It must be
life, to love as fevers, emboldened by winking lights; and it must be life, to
hold a scar, as frantic and alive—for oh this deep riddle, where friction is
magnitude, and love if friction; to feel for mystics, this ravished lot—a pile
of salt; as born to chaos, a mother as a sword, a father as a runner; but I
love us more, cemented in wisdom, and swimming through tragedy; to have this
dream, scarred, battered and bleeding, to leave self and return your soul; to
have but one, this ethic design, to wonder where we disconnect; as the two
being one, where the one is solo, and the two are merging. It’s deep a
conflict, this music as internal, the channel as mystic; to know for psychs,
the days of old, a prophecy as a boulder. It couldn’t be us, as musing a
passion—so gifted the promise of death; to ask one question, of this immortal
love, to ponder this thing of immortality. I threshed a thought, where you were
queen, enlove with plucking plums. It’s a simple passage, as filled with
meditation, as easy to comprehend; where the simple is Zen, as grand as
midnight, this leverage of souls. I love us more, as enchanted deeply, as torn
by the threads of lights; and I love us more, as infused dearly, striking
through caves; but it shouldn’t be love, for so convoluted—this inner
ablation.
