We can’t fathom
attitudes, the texture or flavor, gnawing at reflections; parted by rains, a
parachute as foe—[one painting such friendship]. We pursue kindness, a taste of
naivety, this credulous invention; motivated timely, as threshed wisely,
failing to cultivate the dots. We abuse purity, as a tinge of infection, as
something we must deflate. Its face is love; its portrait is venom; we indulge
without seeing it; for love is measured, the petals of roses, where details
remain camouflaged; as if to see you, would obliterate love—this trestle nigh
to tip-over.
We see
this thing, this gloomy fever, as trespassing, or permeating, an inner calm;
where demons roam, the vast of fields, stripped of love, shocked—this fatal
remission; as time passes, while something grieves, this thing beyond
perception; as to guess, pulled by forces, a mirror veiled by senses; this
terrible joy, this sorrowful bliss, this magnificent hell!
We
couldn’t find you, this three part series—as believing in you; the soil for
branches or the foam for seas that further embedded in patience; as crying your
aura, enlove with agony, as to retreat from dignity: this inner wave, this
stapled horizon—your eyes but a portal of pains; these ghostly charms, at war
with brains, wailing in contrition—this dear affliction, this tide of
blackmail, but seasoned for this lesson; to love the armless, as to knit
ligaments, with this love for control.
We aim for
clarity—while many suffer, searching for reaching, while reaching for
searching—this maze of events, this perfect doll, as to speak when spoken to.
This couldn’t be life, this willing of
power, as to take from life; this measure of wheat, or broken scales, or a
fevered smile.
