I
feel a heart-vest, this inferno freezer, as to tell her with heart-throbs;
whereat is fiction, to measure each word, to utter barely enough; as dying to
greet you, this cygnet of dreams, a feeling charmed by absence; where presence
is chi, to pardon in-thoughts, as motivated by puzzles. I wonder of poets, this
group of legislators, both naïve and traumatized; to see you at mass, to
partake of bread, to sip grapes of blood; and never to see you, as deeply this
scar, afraid to utter feelings; whereat, are cravings, this inner
merry-go-round, as to forfeit infatuation. This clock is speaking, to wonder of
your breath, the fragrance of its odor. One would tell me, of strawberry jams,
and almond tears; to hold us, as struggling through voices, as pushing forward
this cave. I cry this fever, to reckon your aura—this plague of a thousand
years; as sporting hats, to verify authenticity, too close to avoid honesty; as
to lie this wave, therefore, a savage, too far to claim this friendship; so
tell me life, or tell me death, but soon speak liberation; for we charm in chi,
as this lethal volt, both amused dearly; but too far to touch, and too close to
die, as a pair of beige amulets. I know for stupid, and I know for shy, to see
this life churning aloneness; but truth be life, this fevered love, too drunk
to call hurl. I’m fallin’, Love, as to rise again—this daily affair. I’m dying,
Love, born to live this life, as a legend in a grave; to picture for perfect,
those fuchsia eyes, engraved in brownness; to venture through hell, and
portrait your charm, a face too bright to vision. This mustn’t be us, as to
vomit a demon, as coughing and choking up turmoil; wherewith, is rain, this
troubled affection, to doubt when clearly stationed as right. Our days are
thought-filled—our dreams are impartial—and our confession is mainly
mental. Can you see the turns—this
web of grim lights, where we perish to forfeit—a slave of feelings, to know for
clever, but not close enough.
