There’s
power afloat, to plunge a thought, to plummet a wave; as mystic graphics, or
magic wands, as persistent as Ezra; to have for death, this internal life, as
to hide in public view. It happened day one—this instant friction, a woman in
her wisdom; wherewith, are tools, a nibbling of passions, channeled through
anger. I have a feeling, this cave of hearts, a place where she dwells. It
couldn’t be love, this tactic of souls, as nonchalant as Miriam; to have this
dream, from tents to castles—this internal training. I met her in fury, while
laughing at tears, this metaphor for life. It couldn’t be us, as passing with
flames—a spark that lives; to have for homes, an external crevice—this mental
intrusion. I know for pressure, as to know for pain, this place of saints; as
death protrudes, this vine of woes, this outward depression; as sight unseen,
therewith, a scar—sipping, sinking and sailing! I found a friend, a sight for
born eyes, this invisible friend. I rarely speak it, as far too enchanted, but
pain is a preview—for antic lights, this buried cave, as colorings of
perceptions; but how to divide it—this fair encounter, where reality shatters?
I can’t but see it, this subtle deception, as feigning control; but life be
good, this festive dream, to finally fly freely. I love it, to hate it, and
more the same—this internal giant, as distinct and sullen, as cultured by
chaos. It couldn’t be real, this nervous sage, posing through mirrors; but more
to rain, this fission of wines, this Pinot affair; as born to trauma, to see it
as kids—his mother a thousand persons. I feel us moving, this gravel of
directions, as trekking a tsunami; where gods are fallin’, and graves are
bubbling, and winning is struggling—despite the deaths. I’m dying to life, as
one marooned, this fever of dreams. I’m living to life, as one rescued, a
phantom of visions; where joy is dearth, the dearth of joy—this miracle of photographs!
