We create
joy, as lost in pain, such remnants seeping through; this inward masquerade,
speaking to icons, as forever this journey. We love for worlds, as held in
secrets, to share with a solemn soul. We imagine justice, but somewhat
distorted, and hesitant about guidance; to live through warriors, this deep
wisdom, captured by nuances. I’ve been here, searching as to follow, as to
follow by searching; where love soars, this child of addicts, fumigated by
reality; while focused on hearts, as splayed by hearts, this fission of pagan
hearts. It mustn’t be us, as to live at distance, revved by a particular poem;
and it mustn’t be us, as speaking to self, enlove with a particular poem; but
more to us, as sipping champagne, seeking this segue; to voice this fear, this
loud conundrum, as to empathize with favor: this light shall shine, this grave
shall sing, while courted by folklore; to have this second, where all
disappears, followed by deep insight. I can’t but listen, to grief and waves,
buried in a joyous smile: this slave of woes, this happy position, this mixture
we call life; as grounded in us, this fuss and maze, seeping into tragedies;
where we need to learn, about pastel grays, as to encounter convergence; as not
to perish, stifled by concrete, within an abstract world. I love us more, as
pushing a boulder, while sitting in stillness; to shine as bars, broken in
space, as to awaken a new person; this vest of hurts, or skirts of class, as
hiding this valued silence; to chime with leaves, as expecting an answer,
flirting with a golden spoon. The earth is speaking, such mystic tongues,
flooding the day of Pentecost; where our Sabbath lives, as deep a scar, this
inner esoteric; for things are raw, perceived intuition, and favored through
faith; but more to love, this present feast, as rooted in mistakes.
