Its
flesh and soul, to touch his mind, a moment in a camera. Its art and pain, a
city within a voice, this choice for islands; forever isolated, an observer of
self, a mirror for the sun; as to panic in public, as gripping a palm, as to
forsake comfort. I know more of love, as a winner of sorrows, fevered in a blizzard.
I know more of women, reflected in parents, where a kid becomes a man. I know
of pash, this inner craving, this desire for wings; as that crooked life,
abandoned to poverty, trekking a Third World mentality; where kidneys suffer,
and livers rot, while mothers grip a dying infant; to have for chaos, faith as
solid as cobblestones, or better imperceptibility. I’ve died a child, to rise
as barely there—the cares of confusion; to see an aura, confounded by beauty,
as rotten as crucifying self: the days of rain; the arts of misery; the fire of
a ten year itch; as deeply a refugee, against his mind, only to trust the
overseer. I remember this hatred, knitted through gestures, a man at war with
mirrors; to see as sought, but not for realness, to wonder her choice; to have
his seed, as some type of sickness, as to love this man; for she couldn’t know,
the deepest scars, a demon as a soul; to jest in public, as laughing with glasses,
as to crumble in private. We know for privy, to finally collapse, where a dove buffs
our mirrors. I’ve felt such anguish, as balled in a corner, as gripping his
future; to drive as warriors, this course forbidden, reaching for a cygnet; as
not to possess, but more for closure, as even friendship; for I’ve known
mistakes, as crossed in traffic, as pushing through guttered streams: this
inner tragedy, this faceless man, this art embedded in our Father’s brain; as
something with substance, as invisible light, as a metaphor for, I can’t see; as living this texture, as
to graduate pleats, as wistful as too much wisdom; to feign control, confronted
with injustice, as to lose his control; but life is love, this moment in souls,
where perfect becomes imperfect plight.
