Gravity
becomes life—this internal measure, to adjudge and perish; if only to soar,
this outer influxion, this castle of temperaments. You’re fraught with ideals,
where life is black and white—a need to treasure gray meanings; as to interpret
pains, this field of passions, to facilitate traumas; whereat, are bars, to
know for limits—this furious frustration; to cast a wall, where truth
suffocates, as love becomes a contradiction. It’s oxymoronic—the depth of
souls—that travel shallow lands; but this is law, for wisdom crucifies, while
persistence infuriates. I can’t but feel you: a loud beat; a feature in a
mirror; or that ache for normalcy. It couldn’t be life, as one so young, to
grow so quickly; but this is law, to speak Latin at seven, and German at nine;
where life is sullen, except for joys, to carry such impressions; as born a
fever, as watching mother, as to wonder of father. It couldn’t be real—these
grave intrusions, as thoughts wander afar; and it couldn’t be hurt, to edify
souls, where nonsense is revealed; as this is law, a fist full of sights, as
shadowed in a grimace; to welcome a mudslide, as to purchase a sprinkler, if
only to wash the rubies. We give with purpose, therewith, a clamp, as dignified
as queens; where others perish, for faint the gesture—attached to a million
woes! I heard a voice—this shy swan, a bit intimidated. We laughed a tear, as
captured in segments, to picture as painted proudly. We know for arts, as
graphed through rains—this inner chamber; wherewith, are breaths, this sudden
fusion, adrift the horizon; to live it as life, this courting of deaths, these
multiple atmospheres. Our swan is flying, accompanied by wisdom, over a decade
of class time; where indeed, we can’t run—from something so intimate; as to
look around, and see a dearth, of this thing found perfect; so more to
knowledge, to know for truths, where heaven beats a drum.
