We find for love—this internal mystic, as scientific as chi;
this burning heart, influenced by signs, a woman his subconscious. I flit to
fly, as feral this night, tugging at noon tides; to see tomorrow, as early this
morning, kissing our last goodbye. Its hectic this life—to hold but love, a
Zenist as a Baptist; to flood our souls, this golden gavel, stranded at
tribunals. I’ve disappeared, after years of growth, to alter Jerusalem; by
force this love, probing his guts, confused by harmless gestures; as thinking
too much, this harmful myth, as designating chaos. It must be illusion, as
misappropriated, staring at glaring glints; this furious woman, a bit too
hostile, as to rob femininity—even of justice, this remote island, a religion
unto itself; this inner atheist, in love with science, as prone to acknowledge
fey; wherewith, is pain, this inner scar, as such passionate Jews; this culture
of love, soaked in misprints, as a secret society. I see us weekly, staring at
mane, at peace with silence; to know this gift, as blessing a swan—her essence
but a warrior’s; to find for love, this unyielding treasure, tugging a head
filled with dreads; indeed, Ezekiel, as soaring with Samuel, a priest with
instincts to kill. I ponder daybreak, gripping soil, this clump of turquoise
grass; as seeing visions, this silent talk, as glaring in souls; where eyes
would lie, this piercing thought, as to ask of his pain. I love us more,
writing as it falls, unafraid of essence; this major cry, dying as we stood,
this future we couldn’t grasp; where now is pain, this fatal death, as gripping
a neighbor’s pillow; in hopes of singing, as to soon break free, alive but a
moment in breath. I know for swans, as filled with glory, that tiny, powerful
inner fire; to thump his heart, as framed in chi—this image a mimic of
genes.
