I saw cyan eyes, a beige mind, for in between, calculating
deep fortune; while séance tears, dripped upon gravel, where a rose blossomed.
We painted petals, in love with traits, as pictured in photographs. As it
where, engaged in heart-warmth—our violin serenading spirits; while weeping for
love, at chase upon highways, hereby, drifting through motion. Our time has
come, ever to vanish, from fuchsia eyes, bleeding blueberry pie; while dreams
flicker, a hundred miles apart, caged in social affairs; those incredible
standards—this man an outcast, too brave to cause us agonies. Our poison is
love, sheltered from clawing ears, as thus, a paining secret; to have for
brunch, a plate of sorrowed grapes, drifting into abeyance; while casual our
lives, abed a nightmare, in love with tragedy: those features of Shakespeare; our
days with Olivia; our years with dreams; so wish us farewell, to ponder never
again, this beige affair. Oh while time
cringed, this passion buried in bones, as a flower leaning for death: the soul
of Thich Nhat Hanh; the eloquence of St. Augustine; or that power speech by Dr.
King; to mingle as a seashell, while news devastates, to lose a brother in
autumn; this faraway star, so close as to burn, but heeded by nomads; while
asleep in mercies, reciting his psalm, attempting to rev our hidden engine:
that tear for sages; that battle with ghosts; that question strewed to
distraught; for this is downtime, this fever for love, while tragedy wrings
life unto resistance; as refusing death, while to chase this love, a man for
theater: to languish softly, staring at voiceprints, a set of souls kneading
dreams; as casual friends, with moments to cherish, as torn between vying
deserts; too see such rain, drizzle into portraits—our images kneeling for
courage; so let us be brave, as to sing of terror, while an outcast surfs a
scene of alienation.
