Thunder of Measure

I’m talking music, this crystal of dreams, to banish the last goddess; but oh this myth, to ponder her soul, this dignified woman; as crossing peaks, our creeks of pain, to embrace this shadow; as one that cruel, as filled with fever, a bit raw to faith. I thought of Freyja, to mourn for Isis, as seeking Athena; that late night chant, as ranting to rave—of sheer perfection; this coffin of dreams, where pressure buds, as to affect the nation; where it wasn’t life, but more abstract—that moment of chi; for such fertility, this page as human, to write to Mrs. Iconic; wherewith, is love, the beauty of fools, as abused by self; to siphon Sibyl, as to foretell lies, this snare of rainbows.

I’ve died to live, as one abandoned—this web of twilight zones; to see her soul, bleeding pavement, as swashing through graves; to know for certain, the realness of miles, to feel that livid thump; as born with souls, craving this challenge, that rush of seawater; as a mouth of salt, so swift and sullen—that midnight ecstasy. I’ve broached a dragon, a woman at prime, as toxins this soul; to cheer the plight, and night the cheer, this city of wonderful pains. I grave the light, as to tug the tunic, a watcher of the sylph. Oh for mercies, to keep such distance, even from self; as chiseled sorely, to unbox toil, as an unmet monster.

It couldn’t be love, to see it as us, a zombie in an elevator; to rise success, as partial to familiar, as impartial to life; where pious is pressure, as God is measure, to read as a mimic: the cries of silence, the silence of pains, as to perfect this abnormal event. It couldn’t be real, this internal puzzle, this wave soaring to Greece; as an African queen, this distance in force, this course of passions; to feel his heart, thrusting through caves, to awaken a would be secret. I can’t but gripe, whereat, are tears, a pool unseen: this daylight hell, as standing so near, as barely alive; to see for nothing, to redeem for life, a pilgrim in a black vest.