I’m crispy—Love—afraid to confess defeat—as lethal as
unborn. I’m shorn at moments, a sheep sitting still, a stomach filed with
growling; to love you as rain, this teacher of souls, this professor of dreams;
as casual panic, as to wander through thoughts, as lifted as champagne. I write
seldom, in honor to reach you, fraught with invisible tears; for love is
passion, to hold to skittish moments, where a plate of sugar serves a purpose;
to cry that light, a child on a raft, afraid of turbulence; but hearts to love,
a family of souls, as catering to the swan. It’s a keen event, as to offset
reason, to mismatch the world; but I touch a place, this inner palace, this
shrine of fools; as burdened by aches, this furious sky, at ventures with
itself; to pass the milk, this macadamia dream, while filled with chocolate
chips; to slice a cantaloupe, or rather, watermelon, accustomed to whip-cream.
We opt for coffee, and almond cocoa, that closer that moment; to speak of
steaks, the rareness of meat, for a vegetarian at heart. I know not the volume,
conditioned to thoughts, reaching through sheer concentration; as to pace a
room, while speaking to chairs, or more, an image; as grand this love, this
future ballet, as to cherish our fugue. It’s esoteric, and robbed by no man,
this center spinning with glory. We know for hearts, that captive essence, as
to speak to groups; this one person, a station of giants, projected through
sheer thought; to greet you and laugh, for this ‘thing’ lives, a passage
permeating pleasures; to die softly, as born to fly, this space a corner near
hells; but this is love, this riddle in a vase, where a jar speaks of glory; so
more to us, this future event, where love unravels and tears transform.
More to islands—Love—this deep enchant, as fueled by urgency—to
write and gallop, striking through fields, chasing this inward soul; as born to
perish, if not to live, a kid in a grown vessel; this lavish Light, to permeate
rooms, this countenance of fools; as dig for deeper, this elusive word, made
perfect in Scripture. I love you more, this score of years, as apprehended by
brooks; this venture of graves, as pulling at gravel—the sheer affects. We
can’t but dance, as hand to heart, this inner vibration; at core a war, for
pains have grafted, wrapped in linen; these bloody clothes, as fraught with
letters, the words of ambition; to knit the swan, in cyan portraits, where the
mind is controlled; but more to reason, the thoughts of years, where one
realizes their truest nature; this purple bag, this orange hello, this velvet
tinge. I tore a vein, in order to retreat, to await an outcome. It’s skittish
pride, this inner scandal, this vicious slime; but Spirit lives, this art in
pace, this motion the heart; to die with joy, as to live with pain, alert to a
misgiving.
