We know pride, to forbid love, as treasured by pain. Sadness
dreams, escaped by rare men—this friend of passion;—to see her sobbing—this
precious itch, favored by sunshine. I love this day-cry, lost in Jackie
Collins—astray from wisdom; to purchase such rain, the fever of such grain, the
roots of such pain. We flow like music, at ends to bleed—if but one more
secret! Forbid us not—this fluent torture, as abused by actions; to kiss and
die, holding for dear life—that fatal feeling; where souls churn, bent to bring
it back—that deep intimacy: wild as fevers, as crazed as illness, as manic as
gods. We crave attraction, this writhing
sitcom, lost in episodes; to have this dance, while entering magic—this feeling
like snakes; at which, is venom, this beige sensation, flaming through burgundy
eyes. We’ve talked disgust, while yearning for love, afraid to guide a
senseless hand; whereto, are pangs, this fertile growth, before knees
buckle. I held miracles, that wretched
star, for such rotted sorely; but ever her eyes, as reaching this sol, as
carried into millennia. We’ve held
passion, aching with tremors, at once a deacon’s nightmare; but life is cruel,
where love is gentle, according to, Love. We watch in terror, this mirror of
images, laughing maniacally; to unpeg life, as returning to feelings—this
manual essence; while tears cleanse, and anger heals, as reaching for another
millennia. I’ve carved a vision,
petitioned by souls, stirring through stormy cries; while love reaches,
stitched and scarred, soaring through vacuums; this alpha touch, embedded in
omega—this stream of missing parts; to find this woman, that beating heart,
that inner inflation. We’ve died this
love, our parent’s furnace, at agony’s fireside; whereto, are dreams, this
writhing vow—to love for eternal life.
