There’s
deep poverty, permeating this love, to address you as a stranger—where hell is
furious, as to uproot eternity, where you and I share feelings. We imagine
gentility, whereat, are dwellings, this portrait embroidered in dreams; as
chasing visions, or painting pain, an artist and your eyes. There’s a sable
soul, as cultured in oddness, as steeped in vagueness; this ambiguity, shredded
by love, this want to appease each monster; for we shade mindcaves, even at
unawares, stressing and stroking egos; this deep want, this thetic design, as
poetic are gradual deaths; wherewith, are agitations, building this fortress,
where hell seeps out in fragments; so we wander, as to mimic each culture, where
neither appreciates self; this embedded thorn, this brier of nights, this
furnace of casualties; wherefore, to ask of models, for a Cajun soul, that
closer to fretting dreams; for some type of calm, this daylight phoenix, as
treasured as Spain; or more for roots, America’s origins, as grounded in this group;
to know for brown skies, and Asian railroads, and African richness; this grand
denial, as this blemish in life, to rob as planting a flag; but more to goals,
as to captivate eternity, increasing in aptitude, as long to live a wounded
soul. I’m seeing brooks, surrounded by impressions, this art fraught with
glass; as particles to a spirit, bleeding as an expression, a brush to his
blood; as to stipple a message, this fountain of scars, where lies are granted
for freedoms; where children question, to formulate ideals, this soul so young
in wisdom; to purchase one breath, the riches of Yahweh, bottled in belts of
energy; whereto, is life, this volume within a vase, as seeking a mythical
jinni; but it must be love, as to channel a heart, throttling our internal
engines; to find for art, this bee upon a rose, as she has lost her stinger,
and thus, her winds, seeping into one breath.
