We shift through limbo, this carryover beige, where lions
become humble; as lucid this dream, as lotic this laugh, this undergirt of
pain. I remember longing, a lotus upon a sewer, this ludic pretense; to have
for love, such lunar waves, as spun through metal spikes; this maven art, as
knowing for rain, this cane flung through traffic; for dying through life, to
rise through death, this breath as forewarnings. Our knell is ringing, this
city of Gotham, as estranged from freedom; this constant heartache, this solemn
dell, our spirits for leaping; to have for chaos, this melic song, as childhood
but a wreck; where forces bred, a flock of traumas, as summed in one syllable;
as versed in grains, a sundry of roots, where souls remain punctured; for that
fatal shift, as to uproot lights, every mora a sacred knell; this inner
ringing, this attar of spells, where devils are realized; to feel this current,
this inner circuit—pulling at faces; this angry love, devoid of purpose, as
other than destruction; to ground into flight, this orpine as a friend, this
nova as a scar; where lux is free, this outward unit, as embedded in chaos. I’ve
relaxed a brain, this rut to flares, this vex to pangs; to woo a sax, tipsy
from Shiraz, as one searching an inner Tao. It couldn’t be life, this urn as
friend, a mixture of family ashes; as raw as oaken soil, as noble as nightly
prayer, as naïve as unborn science; this ontic venture, our nocturne pain, this
Bach of ambitions; to know for dreams, this river of music, this snare by all
means; where it wasn’t brave, but sheer deception, through cocaine eyes; to
have for mercy, where it wasn’t found, this inner duet; as outward dung, to
fill his lungs, strumming this mental sensation; so more to pagans, this opus as
swift volumes, this angst as rigged width;
so more to guidance, this perfect performance, where few were privy—to scars and stones, this inner harp, as one with David; to charm a demon, where many rest, aloof to this inward mechanism. I’ve cried music, alert to psychs, afraid to utter my demons; as engrained deeply, for mother’s a soldier, as to straw and brick; this inner light, as caged in souls, where we picklock divinity; to unlock waves, this grave of betweens, the timbre of mother’s sorrow. I had a sister, as to perish the womb, but fragments and bones; this anxious vacuum, this mulct of life, but striving with a heartbeat; so more to love, to court for spirit, this angelic crystal; as it couldn’t be life, to journey this path, as to forfeit life; to invade a kingdom, the blur of time, filled with opaque feelings; where it mustn’t be, this wax and wane, as discouraged by trauma; as to feel ashamed, this seismic sorrow, as serious and stern; to know for culture, this inward vibe, as to electrocute a heart’s chakra. I see us more, as floating through scars, a fugue as our prayer, a bear as our burden; to gentle this light, this mesto jota, accustomed to tribulations; but ore to love, as gifted through mothers, where fathers were desperate to fix life. I can’t but see us, shifting a seesaw, or pushing a merry-go-round, as a metaphor for this dance; as ever a circle, screaming through tears, the joys of visitation; to have this life, speeding through spectrums, accustomed to this life; where father’s perish, while mothers mourn, as to meet with joy at morning’s light; so more to love, this flavored texture, at odds with failing; for this is music, this inward chant, a sunflower upon a moon; or more a daffodil, as courting breath, this aqua apricot; indeed, I jest, but filled with verve, staring at ivory intentions; to unburden life, this jasmine rose, a petal for each scar; to soon run out, where pain is metals—this tint of humanity.
