…as to clean his soul, webbed in gothic light, this flagrant
resistance; the darkness of a kiss, shadowed in deception, where life is
catching up; but oh that moment, censored by man, where the kisses were plural.
I shift and turn, to realize kef, this play featured in theater; to see ballet,
this language of life, as interpreted in dreams; while hell watches, where
humans take leads, covered in thicketed moods; as purchased by life, this
entitled feeling, to have more than our lot; but to whom for judgment, as to
assess luxury, where many want it all: this high noon, this deep horizon, while
lovers churn for one last kiss; to give but a grunion, where eyes are onions,
and souls are threshed. I shift and turn, to have known such love, but a
fawning fool.
Our moments are churning, through the time of days, forever
this journey; as reckoned softly, this inner shifting, as webbed in gothic
sights; this world of betweens, this sketchy paradox, this measure of love;
while grace is building, from trial and error, to have waited so long; where
nothing makes sense, as for seeing is forced—this measure of waiting too long;
to exhaust youth, as to proffer what’s left, at odds with too much knowledge;
so give us youth, as to grow through life, where experiences are new; else give
us moments, as to soon depart, for life has been chosen; or leisure as fools,
to have given nothing, in search of this universe.
