I want it like magic, this inner flight, this outward dream.
I drink and sip and sit and ponder—that further the finish line. I’m somber by
nature, a serious soul, and a bit too stern. I need to smile, when pain is
heaven, this light accustomed to passions; to see for visions, this prophet
tinge, as to haunt this inner friction. I’m somewhat broken, as to search for
zeal, the enthusiasm of that young soul; as wanting for love, as capturing love,
as returning love; this vest of vestibules, where I walk the halls, as the
walls are bleeding; for mother scarred us, and father scarred us, and love
scarred us; this man as stolen, even robbed of self, this kef near a cliff. I
wanted mercy, as for given mercy, where passions became butterflies: this
inward hell, this outward smile, this contour as radiant; to strike up envy, as
one too evolved, where hell is running ramped. I couldn’t see us, as living
this life, our palms reaching for glory; to die that tear, accustomed to Guyana,
as trekking through purgatory; to petition Popes, or even a yogi, to have for
five friends; that die this war, steeped in marsh, jarring fireflies; for young
was good, where old is pressure, as to find that middle ground. I closed her
eyes, and so young, to feel it pouring; that close to breaking, where he knows
dementia, as this world of diamonds; to soon return, stalked as alive, for that
inner Buddha; to summons a Sufi, this mystic fire, at war with self; that inner
man, that centered woman—at once for passions; to see as psychs, that measured
ground, to give but enough, as to usher into a venture, that grand aloofness, to
see self and reward life. I can’t but dream, of this woman fair, a man with so
much; to know resilience, as faced with ghosts, these inner demons; as to feel
resistance, this changing behavior, where the core churns in madness. I can’t
but cry, for so many suffer, as lost forever; as to flourish in death,
scratching scars, a series of wounds bleeding; to say so little, to want that
dream, to envision this growth; as moving through Gestalt, or writhing through
Bhakti, as to treasure this Raja style. I love her like a promise, or even this
faith, as grounded as concrete; to push through vagueness, that hard to reach,
as preaching to a mirror; to figure his mind, a force of minds, abandoned to
minds; so more for thoughts, that deep concentration, to cross such waves.
