Plush Green Apples

I’m foolish this scar—this myth with dreams, outwitted by illusions; while sorting through soot, captured in smaze, longing for this stage of poets; whereby, are wounds, grounded, plus, disguised—as time becomes one image—floating through portraits, this weary gravel our anchor. I saw energy, embedded in a countenance, as something foreign to man; whereat, an upwelling of grief, churning for its mirror, as for hopes of companionship; but oh a foolish man, trekking another’s trail, carving names upon spirit; too see for eyes, that furnished scrutiny, buffered by wisdom. We died that love, as never to curse that love, as realizing our times have changed: this wearied mind; that rejuvenation; as reading futures repeated: this lavish night, our eve of guests; our anguish chastising—if but a moment of clarity; to see for soul, this genuine love, as battered by false impressions. I’ve skated terrors, this force that leaps, as disgruntled dearly; while earth would tremble, that moment of shadows, to find a warm touch. Pash is but elegance, where gestures compliment status, as opposed to sitting with minds crossed; this fortune of love, as an army within, as marching with, Sade; our frantic hearts, leaping with chi—driven to muse upon a distant thought. Our years are mazes, perfecting our crafts, while perusing a longstanding legacy: that whispered wind; those sable eyes; our mental feng shui; this one in two, as sheer confusion, this deep intuition; to charge with treason, this running mirror, afraid of its heartbeat. We lived this wave, heavy in mind, as rambling in private; to rummage possibility, sealing confetti, if only to find that picture. I see us alive, as filled with joys, wrestling with a shared secret: that castle of pains; those fluctuations; that one pill that’s mocking; but more this love, as rooted in delusion, as to find its home: that dungeon of passions; that wild berry; that unrelenting distrust; where this life—as mingling wishes, a poem as a temple.