I’m
a pigeon, as merely alive—the grind of omissions; this fatal fiat, enlove with
danger, as mourning Freyja; as soon to die, these years as free, to incur hell;
that deep sickness, the bliss of passion, as crashing with gods; to venture the
nights, this dictum of fools, as cruel as longevity; as to live this life, an
endless wave, as crazed as monsters;
whereat,
are dungeons, this probe of hearts, where the faceless appears.
We
covet love, as to covet pain, where home is three feet shy—of captive angst;
—this
grave upon fantasies—to have for girth, this immortal charm
—our
arms forever reaching; but more to life, this fertility god, this goddess of
love, this beauty of attraction;
as
nameless this soul, aside for linguistics, this goddess of war—as flown into
battle, to claim for death, the resurrection of wealth;
to
see us in chains, trekking the midnight fields, as filled with magic’s
prophecies; this giant of grimes, this sewer of feelings, to sew as Penelope;
where
suitors begged, as gray as moments, to become this Wellbeloved; as a poem to
vase, or a baby to a crib, to nurse a vest of secrets;
but
this is life, our renowned star, this jar for nets—within a cave; to venture forever,
as loving this scar, to mend but a portion
—as
bleeding this love.
Our
tides are raging, a series of upwellings, crashing into a jutted cliff; to
grieve for motion, this ocean of sentiments, this mediocre cadence; where Love was
heard, as to fly his coop—our pious queen—as searching lagoons— to calm for
qualms—a heart that closer to vessels; wherewith, are tales, the hells of lust,
as to fall apart—into a wealth of climaxes, as gripping for murder, to execute
an inner truth; for this is love, the wails of Juliet,
the
scars of Nietzsche,
the
prose of Woolf; as starved beyond measure, as clever beyond lies, as situated
at a cabinet table; but truth be harms, accosted by cells, accounted for deaths
—as
to shiver in quivers; to haunt for home, a valley of indiscretion,
where
we leaked into a public square.
