They met as psychics, both tilling soil—so distant this
passion; to frame scars, in mental mansions, both a pair of doves.
It couldn’t be love, this glance of visions, as to
pontificate a memoir; as it was for love, to push passed a dictum, as to arrive
at love. He tried to see her, this fragile—but strong woman; to haunt her eyes,
these diamonds grieving, as to penetrate skulls. He ached in silence, embedded
in magic, a net of vibrant passions.
She loathed his soul, for hell was patient, as to destroy in
increments; this velvet scar, as placed in kettles, this steam as a stream of
maybes; to vacant our nights, as lonely as fools—this greenhorn position.
I speak of self, this inner love, to forfeit dementia; this
flagrant force, as forever his mind, as something for value; to ski the scars,
as silent servants—so desperate as righteous; to have acclaim, this vicious
art, to lose it without a breath.
We cried at midnight, afraid to confess, as two partly
paralyzed.
I see her blindly, to soon gain sight, as one enchanted by
humans: this glorious love, as threading a book—ten friends her soul!
I cried to let go, but this is life, a series of torn
events; as to purpose love, this angry seal, as too evolved to grip a sentence;
where arms reach, this psychic enchant, this blatant conviction; as born to
perish, to search for segue, as to hold her hand from quite a distance.
We punish love, as to punish self, but this is life: a green crystal, a vibrant star, as a heart beating through rivers; so must we live, even to retreat, gifted in silence.
