We’ve measured us, this deep catastrophe, indebted to lies;
while pictures morph—into seismic skies, an earthquake merging fingertips; to
have that dream, where love is awesome—this non-aggressive sex; as fumbling
joy, whelmed in matrimony—this season of rules; but more for rain, this
aggressive nature, as construed for passion. Its throat to lungs, choking and
winded—a fist full of fire; where flames scribble—upon hidden psyches—the
richest intimacy. We drift in nature, through a forest of cries, and scattered
by design; to know that feeling, as something threshed, our woes a segment of
such happiness. We’ve come to conquer, a psychotic as lover—that thing which
wrenches souls; to laugh and moan, as carried too far, that closer to
alienation. I’ve died through memoirs, as wondering of pain, this filter
driving passions; to lose a fragment, while steeped in sadness, as to morph
into a thousand eyes. I see us dying, as to live that second, engrained in a
lover’s speech: the woes of time; the syrup of love; this portrait painted
perfect; while climbing infinity, and sparked with life—our entrails deceiving
our grace; to love us less, this hell of terrors, as seeking a lethal suitor;
where tears are castles, framed in clouds, stressing an ambivalent feeling. It
couldn’t be life—as loving forever—such immortal distance; so more the
shame—that need to retreat, where yesterday was fire; this favorite cry, a
cowboy as a friend, this soul of silent tensions;—as evoked as love, where
something tingles, while the mind is frazzled; as something foreign, stressing
the bones of love, while marrow longs for a friend; that deep amore, covered in
star-drops, as held upon midair.
