Hey
Love. It couldn’t be real, the mizzling of rain—the midst of fevers—to expound
a nation, as crooked dearly, a man of prisons. I walk in silence, this voice of
prose, a different part of self; as a pictureless dream, codified in rhythms,
sitting with glossy eyes. Oh my love—the days are grievous—the nights are
villains; to approach death, as dearly vicious—this pensive war-call. I saw us
breathing, despite suffocation, despite this travesty. It must be life, a
portrait on a wainscot—this panel of hopes; to cross lights, to make haste for
orange, to anticipate a future. I know of love, to have lived this grave,
fevered in fatigue; as born through justice, to reel injustice, to sparkle in
hatred; so more to life, this deep purgatory, to pet an apparition. Oh for God, to love this soul, a swan as
moving bricks; to picture this face, this invaluable structure—asearch for
symmetry: the arts and nights, that museum of dreams, this woman he couldn’t
believe; as tears become sulfur, this laudable hatred, as dying to elude a
contour: this fever of days, this barefaced travesty—if only to speak the
mystic; for death is life, as the life of death, this tender misery! I return
to us, as seeking a future, to evolve through moments—where pain ruptured, that
infant smile, as nearly premeditated; and hell to reverie, but a second in
time, to usher such disappointment. It couldn’t be us, as suspicious of
laughter, as yearning for vogue. Oh the metaphysics, a series of black queens,
as one running the Whitehouse; for torn and dying, as crying though livers, as
pouring into a jug. I can’t forget—the tense of prose, as living this
reality—and ever to morph—this vision of hells, as clashing with humanities;
and dear for God, this woman of screams, a mallet to an armoire, as blood and
brine, and sex and fever, to realize the scopes of breath.
I
love this heartbeat, the kef of skipping, to allude to our tears; but it
couldn’t be law, this fraction of a friend, as looking towards self; to grind
in nights, the life of mansions, as stationed in kingdoms; and chi is life,
along with Spirit, to feel for missions: the long roles, the dying goods, the
rising suns; and art is love, as filled with credulity, the essence of a young
swan; to find for hurt—those days of yore, as one sitting jaded. It mustn’t be
law, and it mustn’t be failure, to remember a somber moment; as crooked to
straighten, and straightened to slant—a series of bat-flies. Oh for love, to
see this name, as immortalized clearly. The earth is young, the hearts are
worn, and terror prowls the deep terrains; as feeling prophetic, a glass as
tears, to sip and ponder the swans; as ageless beauty, grinding in tempers, to
clash with forgiveness.
