Let
us remove our masks—as tired deeply, of forfeiting love. I remember psychoses,
this fatal woman, as sitting in mania. I gazed sharply, offended by distance,
to know we couldn’t give. The weeks were hell, reaching out to silence, as
opposed by a mirror. We must of seen it, this mystic union, as two musing upon
beauty; to find for cultured, this element of death, grounded in illusions; to
have reality, this form of naivety, as gray as fallen moons; but more her
tides, running our shores, as absence and footprints. I hate to love her, as
gripping our guts, this furious anxiety; to rock in motion, a swan as a rubric,
to return is segments. There’s faultless passion, engraved in hearts, as for
concentration and fiery thumps; not to mention Spirit, this hatless woman, to
generate such holiness. We crossed a path, to witness features, as crazed as
monsters. Our heads were shadows, frightened with fury—this caution driving us
forward; to have but locks, or more for ethics, as galvanized as a burgundy
stallion. It must have been real, so many years of fey, where particles
sprinkle from skies. Our vault has ruptured, our souls are volts, and our
vision is vivacious; to sink while swimming, to unplug a sink, a faucet
dripping into factions; as born to love, to feel for hearts, this mighty
intuition; but never would, for sheer respect, to see us and die while
breathing. The days are stronger, to resist this persistence, as infatuated
with the skills of psychs; for life has changed, as fallin’ and rising,
wherewith, are skeletons; as bare as bones, this inner sanctum, to speak it as
Ezekiel. I apologize dearly, for so much unsaid, where it was easy to run; at
least for sight, the deepest paradox, to pause while driven through motion;
where love is patience, and more for hells, as granted this febrile gift. We
must pursue it, this deepest pleat, as to tap into something surreal; and
petition life!
