I couldn’t say it, unless to feel it—that inner tsunami—as
powerful a village, confined to islands, with maximum to breathe for: that
dying life; this rising flower; that too close distance. This tear is precious, dissipating in midair,
an eagle as witness. We’ve sanded dice, fraught with ethics, as low as rooted
seeds; to see such eyes, pleading as to fall—pushing through membranes. I love
us underground, sitting in proximity, moving as confirmations: this early
death; this resurrection; this cave of cloths—to bleed our minds, awaiting
motion, as crying to give; born for reception, but awkward as unshorn,
stressing lies that can’t be seen; while to crawl this haven, a dream matured, detached
from motivation; to uproot life, sewing as to be seen, grieving this island; to
see his fire, as fallible love, as assumed perfection; this channeled pain, as
maneuvering blindly, seeing self in a stranger’s mirror; such evaluation,
seated in a third party, where self is elusive; to presume through kindness,
the danger of souls, where we need this image; as more survival, where disease
dictates perception, as if our tears are different. I couldn’t say it, as
charged this moment, if more to ask of infallibility; this false position, to
judge his life, where nothing he says is of value; for a book screams, of this
darkened stigma—his flesh an outward disaster. I’ve crossed a line, where few
could see, while genes became intelligence: this fevered night; that inner
raven; that spoken language; for deep contempt, as shadowed in tulips—this
flowery language; to find this edge, bent on morals, as an issue with nonsense;
for greeting souls, this deep design, to feel her as a mother of children: this
welcomed nursery; that swollen nipple; those nights gripping for dear life. I
couldn’t say it, as to watch this process, perceived as one too smart; where
others gain praise, an outcast gains venom, while perfection is merely
compromise. I see it more, strapped in confessions, grieving that inner man: this
fool of dreams, to thwart compassion, where a person must evaluate self; this
classic drama, as refusing to think, as searching to confirm a miscounted
thought; indeed, to reckon, a person’s scars, associated with wisdom, as
grounded in academia; to state a lie, for its common in books, as opposed to
seeking truths. Our years are mythic, to classify life—the taxonomy of
mania—it’s sister depression—those pains entrenched in silence, as one that
disappears in a private session.
