I envision stubbornness, this clear substance, devoid of
particles; this inner texture, splayed at humble junctures, thriving as
mechanisms; this atom of souls, as vast as seas, this creative color; as
mixture and blood, rooted in ancestry, and screaming through love. I’ve held a
name, so close to heart, as to rev his mind; this outward charge, a furious
idea, gnawing and sawing in our forest. The summers were wintry, the fires were
frozen, the skies were black; as bees swarmed, this melancholic fruit, dying in
dozens torn from their stingers; while a swan took grit, this village of a
soul—studied in calmness: the air beating, the drums shredding—our neighbors
lost in essence—to pray our souls, this convergent light, mingled in purple
substance. We climb to love us, to push passed the wretched, to see it as a
full package; even as they wish, when the stage light is on, this thing they
can’t give. I wrestle intolerance, to strive for the arête, as one falling
short; to wish it, Love, this mystic appeal, surging through crevices. I felt
us—to die us, this color our shades; where time is screaming, this fortress of
subtleties, as etching our final graph: this inner blueprint, this infinite
rent, where lives are paved in death: this outward kiss, this fading light—our mothers reaching for God! I’m worn
through seasons, a bit too rounded, as this deep oversight: to perish in
degrees, as an awakened fool, too cultured to visit my first wound. I love us
reading, as to grow through love, as to witness this transformation; where days
are bricks, stacked in mortar, as forming a mental lexicon; this inner pyramid,
as outward geometry, seeking where pastors retreat; while flourishing in wits,
this patient falcon, drilling at majesty; to take from love, to embed nature,
where emotions are nuisances; but souls yearn, provoked by realities, if ever
to feel it—We love, Love.
