I know you love me: that casual air; that fevered flash;
that night it wouldn’t dry. I know you hate me—as none ever would, as to
rekindle our death. It was hell, these days of plight, to finally advance,
while God cried, to see us twist, as a boat upon seas. We die this passion, so
great this nightmare, afraid of interrogation; where psychs probe, while
frantic this dance, as to ponder the finite; these wings, that must to perish,
as we must return. It was midnight tears, this telic chance, watching this moon
sink. The hours flew, the years of vagabonds, the mornings of liquor—where
poets chase, that lethal stream—if only three lines; as to rekindle magic, this
internal spell, to write a thousand lines—as shifting topics, aligned in
measure, this month of flying dreams. We must suppress it—this inner animal, a
conversation growing raw. I see her there, as wishing a breakthrough, to see us
collapse: that infant wit; those crooked aisles; that turn that screams; and it
must be life, as churned as butter, serving as one’s buttress. The Monte Carlo
revs, a gangster’s nightmare, as to drift through rainstorms; while nothing
lives, this touch he couldn’t see, where therapy is broken. I loved our growth,
to see us as tears, as to realize illusion; a daughter’s cry; a mother’s pearl;
this internal linchpin; but must we run, as pierced through time, this flux of
runaways; whereat, is loneliness, this path of fools, longing for one kiss. I
must disappear, as to finally see—this mythic ideal; where hell sleeps—deep our
Father’s palms, as to wonder of persistence. Let the souls rest, fleeing
through purgatory, as to venture to heaven; through which are graves, this
chase for peace, as tiptoeing a cigar; while love peers, to see for growth, as
to chuckle in private. Oh to live it—that bright-eyed jewel, scratching at
decisions; while art is knew, for pain is wild—the trees are forever!
