It’s
a different volt—something akin to panic, where the heart is fire; if but a
moment, unlike the Ghost, this terror to feel. I love this drilling. I knew to
intrude. I knew to beckon India. It’s more an arrow—this spark in June—the
waves of one volt; for there’s a woman, this different feeling, alike to your
soul. The earth is shallow. The vine is marrow. The bone is threading. It
mustn’t be real—the realness of a swan, so young—as embedded in serum. I love
for unseen, as one sipping grapes—that closer to sober. It’s the gravest
tolerance, the lying to a psych, as rich as its toxicity; to have this feeling,
as dead to inhibitions, where such is guided by class; and nevertheless, I
yearn for entrance, as slow as a snail, to enter into this monument. Our ether
is love, the death of failing stars, as stationed in Orion; to know for
Neptune—this looney estate, ruptured by a fading splinter; this volt of
seconds, devoid of romance, except for this vague resonance. I’m indebted
dearly, to hear your answer, to know for faith; where yours is plural, and
mine’s the image, as if not for plural. I hear you more, this beige of a woman,
as if the tides are not devastating. We know for proves, that deep the caves,
staring at hieroglyphs; to die this moment, to see it so clearly, to receive
the confirmation; but I know a woman, that needs this gesture, to see it aside
from science; to hear that voice, that midnight sermon, echoing deep the
cerebrum. It mustn’t be true, to meet your acquaintance, sitting while puffing
cigars; but I know a woman, this vague alarm, as enchanting as a Hindu poet: so
must to beckon, this solemn drill, for one akin to a swan. It couldn’t be real,
this inner chamber to bless a series of doves; as born to loins, and stranded
in a desert, as filled with holy straw; to know for Krishna, as embedded in
flesh—the girth of a thousand ships; to ask of Helen, this vibrant star, to
infuse Poseidon.
Saturday, June 25, 2016
Volts Spark Enchant
