What
is he—this hallowed man, spinning to fall—to rise; as risen so far—the bars of
Wisdom, this liberating force? The more for one, the more for contrast—a comet
in a psyche; to raise a glass, as given a speech, as to fall and teach and
rise. I met us in prose, the churning of Words, to find us grieving pavement:
as nurtured through spines, the eyes of torture, founded in hays of happiness;
this grand applause, for one broken partly—the splitting of a plum; for more
the core, this war of selves—a mirror as plurals; and exponentials, the terror
of souls, to forfeit numbing words; to have for craft, this technique of
substance, as founded a bit naïve; but this was us, the chasing of stars, as
wounded in the fields. We nurtured a dream, as reeled in pigmentation, to
realize similar traumas; these familiar spirits, haunted for such essence, to
read a clock through forward thinking; and I know for eyes, this aura of a
child, a bit too far to reach; and reach we have, through kinetic gloss, to
swarm at unawares; to have this moment, as to fall and rise and dance and claw,
that closer to pits and dungeons. We bring for words, as cradles and
draperies—an album on repeat—to tether a dream, the face of ambition—the
silence and science of a human being; for it comes with ease, to love this
swan, as to forfeit the insidious; but life is riddles, that faraway field,
trekking through mountainous terrain; as sitting in stillness, the art of Zen,
as buried in intuition; to rise into a chant, to fall into an abyss, as one
risen above the pain; as to harness grayness, at the loss of blackness, as one
accused for whiteness. I met us in poems, as carved from God, as two pushing
towards freedom; where art was goodness, to excavate deepness, as one
forfeiting the petty errors. Oh for silent tears, and petit scars, where
perception betrays the onlooker; to scavenge a sewer, as enthralled by gold—the
antre of a furnace; whereat, are illusions, these smelted realities, as to
position a rising mirror; to churn in circles, the ways of chaos—the product of
one’s genetics.
