I’m looking for something, the flavor of grandness, featured
in psychoses. I speak in silence, the countenance of rain, as radiant as
sunshine: this inner petal, this outward rose, the two mingling in twilight;
brought to perfection, this cavelike cemetery, walking with broken souls. I
mean not for sadness, as dwelling the human condition, infused by multiple
poets; to read her words, as confused and clear, this paradox plaguing a young
swan. I know for Sophia, her streams of chaos, sorting through knick-knacks;
even your soul, thrumming through, Traci, conflicted with intuitions. I’ve
cried a cygnet, afraid to love, as in need of a muse; to find this life, a fuse
in a freezer, asearch for vibrant warmth. I found us early, the decades to
come, a prison seen as freedom; this aloof air, as miseducated, reeking with
confidence. I was dying to find you, this equal your worth, to share this
intimate pain; so cry this poesy, or lie this calmness—the angst of
Shakespeare; where days are years, this second confounded by faith—this podium
bleeding dead men; affected through passions, crashing into pillows—the room
keeps moving! I loved your name, the
essence of mystics, clashing with realities; in tune this birth—it was us as
babes—our legacy planted in Cush; to sense a vibe, at once uncouth, as to
confront a would be liar; but time has fashioned—this wealth of grace, a zombie
as a newborn human; to shed the confidence, as to reveal reality, as to linger
in Humble Valleys; to see your face,
restricted in prose, to love that one tell;
this outer angst, this vat of days, this crazed mentality; while buried in
you, and buried in life, this block of knitted thoughts. I hated to know us,
for love was so perfect—this false impression; to want our wiles, the earth as
witness, condemning our wiles; as I drifted this fantasy, a billion dollar
wine—this inward soul through grace.
