I often talk to you, as to adventure this valley, strewn in
immortality; this thicket of joys, a child as sacrifice, a hatchet paused in
motion. This sheer miracle, as if to hear angels, a position founded in faith.
Ours is effulgence, this radiant maybe,
this fevered whetstone; to dash through slices, as something majestic—the cries
of a blooming woman; to feel it with mercy, as to wash his eyes, with nothing
but sheer love; the guilt of storms, to know that I would, if complications
permitted; as to know that I couldn’t, as trekking Jesus-stones, to venture
your heartbeat. It mustn’t be life, this fatal motif, as never to touch your
soul: this crawling angst, to envision fantasy, where father’s wept. We know
for splendor—our palms in blood, as one sacrificed to crucibles; and we know
for joy, those first few weeks, to feel that spacial euphoria; and we know for
life, to see that smile, as one that created it. I’m a starlit fool, even a
mandolin, posted as a marksman; to tender this heart, this focus for drool, a
circuit surging through infinity; to love us spinning, this needy effusion, as
complimented by reception. It mustn’t be real—such bleeding memoirs, as this
seismic curse; this vault filled with welts, as walls scream, Mercy, a well we couldn’t outsoar; as
born too soon, to arrive too late, this frantic fireball. I saw you at
day-rise, to love you at nightfall, this infinite mystique; as running through
walls, this chaos of love—made privy to spirits; where demons roam, this
skyward force, as distorting pixels; to cloud his judgment, this roaring lion,
where Love soothes with a tender voice; as aching in pains, this feral torch,
at once to ensoul winds. It mustn’t be life, to court a phantom, spinning
through axioms; where love is myth, this kiss of fools, reaching towards a
skyline.
