I’m
through loving us, but essence a mother, stirred into a trauma-comma. I’m not
fleeing us, but essence a father, as to repeat his life. The flowers are
mourning, crying this fiat, to hold court as mere authority. We left it as
wrongs, in search of righteousness, that torn through redemption; to have this
second, dying in convulsions, to rise—and leave, with no regards. I know
regrets, but not your life, but the vessel through which—the nights are thorns,
the days are acid, and life is but tragedy. I disappeared, to claim such
glory—the life of Buddha; as born in circuits, to feel it as sudden, this
inveterate calling. I knew us ruined, as hungry for life, stressing this dreary
music; to wound for love, this partial climax, as drifting through mindcaves;
and gods fell, to rapture nymphs, as falling into Satans; this dream of
spirits, conditioned as to rise, fleeing from multiple commas. I know of
daughters, as struggling feelings, as merging with mothers; to lose identities,
as craving to live the funnels, if this must be life; as heard in verses, to
anger mother, whereto, the wonder of days. We cleave and panic, as not receive,
this flight of young swans; as captured by devils, to push the irrational—so
far removed from moments! I heard us fallin’, and saw us rising, where thoughts
fell instinctively; as tender the essence, a swan as reborn, to feel a thousand
thumps; where mothers venture change, as to cleave to brick, hoping that one
never adventures. I can’t but see—the long pastures, that inner vineyard, as
born to seek fruit; to partake of wisdom, as to replace eyes, as filled with
cultures; as we failed a life, as filled with venom, as partial to bull-crap;
to claim for love, as to ignore the summers, where longing painted expressions;
to enter a room, and slam a hit, as to envision that something changed. I
couldn’t forget, a woman so golden, as to forfeit addiction for nine months;
and then for hells, as yearning for desire, as feeling old and ruined. I know
not the days, that love became boredom, and suitors became precedence; but this
is life, a series of hormones, dying for that centerpiece.
