I’m scudding with daughters, infused with life, at one with
this centerpiece. We call you joy, this deep attraction, while scratching our
skulls.
I felt bland to love you—this feral
dream, at once, this innocent hell; while captured his mind, peering at beauty,
something failed to be seen; this wealth of arts, catered by divinity, as
feeling so distant—from aches and pains, or inner reigns, while suspicious of
love; where sex was given, this feeling of prostitutes, as dignified as,
Athena.
I long for midnight, sitting in
resonance, this attribute of spirit; to feel that volt, even those nuances, to
realize this fancy: that dream of souls, longing to go deeper, at war with
social constraints. But what for life—spinning in turmoil, at odds with subtle
joys; for hell invaded, flitting as to fly, while a human skated; so more to
caution, as cleaving to balance, where our love has proven a lock-keep.
We’re given death, while searching for
light, as to find sheer paradox; this vault of fools, this god of science,
while yogis and mystics mingle. I called it chi; she called it Spirit; and we
drifted into chaos—as warring like fools, to feel that bomb—exploding upon impact.
It couldn’t be real, to exist a heart-cave, piercing into a backboard. I gave us life, as defrauded of love, where
Satan feels justified; but this is art, those waves afar, piercing as to flood
our gates.
I’ll speak plainly: I love you as a
mystery—this inner something, but I loathe the fantasies—as crazed this pain,
this vein of heartbeats, while scratching eczema: this heated force; that
cursed alliance; that far too concerned posture; to have a dream, filtered
through insanity, as becoming a best-friend. It was days to birth you—while
sudden to perish, this thing of fools; wherewith, are scars, this dread of
infants, while nursing at mother’s breast.
