We erase self, born as altruists, shadowed in venom; to feel
for purpose, this vest of sacrifice, draped in muddy lagoons; for this needed
cure, to offset violence, this internal warfare; to have as needed, as to yearn
for more, this vehicle of frustration; but more to love, a swan as a kingdom, a
mother as misunderstood; as filled with wrath, to know for hells, where ours
are of more value. It sickens sorely, as to exult rage, where both are
childlike. I say it for conscious, as not for attack, where I classify self;
but more to love, as flailing self, to realize a shortcoming; where stars are
gray, dipped in silver, as ever this magical spin; to imbue life, our tears to
trickle ink, and pains to lavish swans; as more to love, this flirt of death,
our minds cycling misfortunes; as mere for silence, as radiant jewels, as
fretting our daily debut. We love it more, where a series evolves, as life becomes
a sitcom; to perish our flights, grieving our wounds, as proud to evolve. I
heard a swan, calling in cave-stars, to arise in a father’s mirror; as a
beautiful maze, as filled with gestures, this morning personality; to jaunt
through snow, as to trek through marsh, a lady for all seasons. I’ve heard us
read, as things are riddles, to wonder of this calling; but this is Scripture,
our graffiti as legend, our joust as immortal; to lean at midair, this volume
of divinity, where parents learn to live; as opposed to war, this grave
addiction, as a need to feel this wealth; whereat, is turmoil, for one hiking
through death—this need to recharge; but love us more, our doors as threshed,
our flesh as mangled; to venture a smile, as to cook for joy, this late-night
omelet; but know for rain, where souls may smile, affected through human
conditions: this castle of lights, where grit excels—a daughter as
protégé. We pause; if only to see, a
piece of self; while we move, if only to see, this dark reflection; but more to
love, a lotus as a friend, this symbol of mortality, this something as a brain.
