I found a space, this inner avenue, as many have
trespassed—this wicked calm, as gray as passion, this mirror laughing. I found
a diamond, this infant swan, flapping and daydreaming; as bent for joy, this
lavish rain, the crown of anguish. It’s terrible—this strife, as one
confused—appealing to reason, where she fails to live, a family of agitators.
There’s a feud, composed of black and white, where color must behave! I’ve
chased a star, reaching as airborne, this mystic tension; while hell grieves,
to have gone far—into that blue sky; as turquoise wings, this inner cadence,
this reason bent on truths. I’m scarred and laughing, this maniacal spin, while
the moon is swimming. It couldn’t be life, this inner swan, a stranger to the
night-grief; as far too young, to see its worth, this blessed-curse; as gems
and jewels, and myth and tales, that closer this horizon; to know for plots,
and agitation, and plain betrayal. I couldn’t see it, that deep depression, as
to chastise a nun; for hell was warm, flowing through leaves, as time became
morbid; whereat, are troops, to haunt the living, as screaming that death. Tell
the seasons—of the deepest tale, searching for harmony; this lavish scar, a
mother of three, reaching for a dead husband; to speak of God, this man of
miracles, as to wonder—my miracle! I couldn’t stay, where hell was living, so
give him my hat; this crazed rule, as ever that mind, challenged by chamber
gates; this torn attraction, a pair of addicts, longing for Friday Nights: the
greasy fries, that rounded glass, and children that can’t see; for hell hides,
until exposed, to grow defensively; indeed, my tears, to see it for pain, this
bleeding event, where hell is constantly lying—and power is a new curse.
