I
love your pain, forever our heartache, a sore found sullen. we adore agony,
this tender anguish, a tomb of authors; where love is icelands, where glaciers
melt—into this flood of dreams. I’ve seen this place, flushed through red eyes,
fractured by teared rubies. we counted scars, to argue wounds, as so proud to
grieve. oh for sickness, this inner miracle, a bit too confusing; to irk our
death, something so fragile, to laugh through fortunes; these crowded screams,
nails striking flesh, as pulling a hurricane; these petit aches, as forging a
mountain, as need for russet wines. we needed a crisis, to evolve this life—as
broken humans, molded at fragments, enlove with sheer mercy. oh this livid
curse, to vanish in plain view, that terrified essence; where demons tread,
through shattered thoughts, a psych and your ink-grains; to define aberrant,
even abnormal—this penchant for rain. we’re soon to cry-us, this night for Cyrus—as to carve freedoms. I love your
reign, forever this nightmare, as glorious as three days later; where pigeons
perk up, this melodious cooing, so far adrift illusions; to cry, It couldn’t be—featured in a dungeon, as
dreaming in agonies; to love this venture, this inner Picasso, this outer
Rousseau; as dying this glory, a face filled with joys, a fist full of clouds. we
thought dementia, this furious adventure—to siphon such pain; we thought as captives,
afflicted with freedoms, yearning for this enslavement; as such is majesty, this
majestic mystic, as craving to gnaw flesh. we heard this heart, this influx of roses,
this inner detachment. oh this beige spear, thrusting as to fracture, this courted
mystery; to have but three seconds, this froward life—our loveliest scars! I love
our myth, dining at graveyards, assembling bones; where ghosts embody flesh, as
raging at loquats, this symbol for Eden; in which, we perished, filled with objection,
deprived of a hearing.
