I love us as unborn—drifting through time, a heartbeat
without origin; to conjure your name, this vague linage, as so confined to
manners; where loving your soul, this kernel of a mind, explodes with impact. I
must with dalliance, this Cajun exploration, to know us as dancing: that
twinkle of reason, those beige eyes,—that furrow of a brow; to touch this
trebled womb, as to cup a slipping thigh, as so enthused with explosion. I must
return—where facts dictate fantasy, this crayon life-print; to see us at war,
occasioned with trembles, as a smile to a ghost. It haunts us more,—this dark
piano,—musing through triune sentences; to fall through heaven, as to capture
hell, a vase lunged at a mirror; where it mustn’t be art, this ting of
infusions, as to outlive our breath-prints. I venture your soul, this wealth of
dignities, far too advanced for fancy; or the moon is hiding, at tryst with
love—the sun a bashful witness! I laugh to ponder, this dark morale, camouflaged
in innocence; but more these thoughts, of virtuous women, at soul a sacrifice!
I mourn to fathom it—this torn estate, burdened by perfected actions: this war
of angels, tugging for adventure, for one far too advanced; as to frighten a
soul—the depth of intimacy, wailing in tongues! I’ve cried of facts,
semi-awakened, to wish the fairest rest: as far your soul, as dear this
heart,—a soul-print away from darkness. I love us more, a muse to a Pianist, a
ballad to a Musician,—to plague the maestro, this feral sheep—the entrails of
wolfish minds; indeed, to vacillate, from angel to sinner, as one inept dearly;
where passion is law, as to forsake morale, that closer to igniting salvation. I’ve
laughed this death, at war to cherish, the sparkles of insanity; to come for
greatness, a legend to self, striking through your consciousness; so do
forgive, this fragment of thoughts, for one intrigued with fancies.
