It’s
merely a thesis, by which to perish, a bit embarrassed by life; for love was
never, but sheer the gesture, to await a reply. I soon forgot, the wiles and
ways—of one so eager for anger; but more it came, to plant a jester, as
branches melted into pavements; but what of love, this measure of a person,
even that found platonic; to have for grayness, the scents of blackness—as one
aiming for whiteness; this centric divide, as channeled in a comma, to feel for
family; that grand event, to lose such filth, as to gain such chaos; but I
meant to ask—of something so cold, a game of few souls, grounded in
perspiration. Our table is slanted—a semi credenza, where the drawers are
filled with confetti; to have this whiff, of something so mean, as to ignore a
man’s thesis; so worry the sun, but laugh in joys, for the measure is love; as
to scold a swan, and hold a dove—the two as one; as born to color, this
sycamore tear—a set of oaken eyes; to cringe this life, as auburn knowledge, to
find for treasure such footprints; as yearning for Kenya, the trumpet of a
soldier, falling into a symphony. I died to meet us, as furious souls, fallin’
where we arose in panic; to catch a season, the garlic of soup, as one reading
through Purgatory; but more to topic,
this disenchant, where neither gives a rat’s ass; as feeling for fever, to
unmask Satan, flipping and hiking through a blackdamp; to nurture soot, to
strike for gold, the diamonds of a personality; to see so much, as in touch
with death, to transform its very essence; to feel undone, adrift the arête,
stressing the footprints of Aristotle; as born to Plato, this christic event—a
songbird of a swan. We strive as gladiators, the surface of souls, as sick and
psychotic; to space a triumph, to pause for culture, our strings afloat a star;
as woven in chaos, the girth of a psych, if only to reach this bleating sun. I
can’t but life, in a world so bold—a cathedral as a heartbeat.
