I felt us
in ritual, that locomotive, that inner boomerang—while thrumming this heart, as
to gather whys, that closer to empty
truths; that style of voices, that measure of sanities, a train in midst of a
desert; to roam freely, crashing mirages, where a cygnet awakens: that uncouth
frenzy, charged as esoteric, that terror the death of woes. We’ve died to feel
love, a pair of howling twins—tortured as to fall through waves—this cave of
men, searching for meaning—examining heartbeats—as to measure our worth, this
frantic collage, while to float a medieval kiss: this haphazard tear, that well
of mischief, as to near too close to danger—with want of this treachery, this
fatal cry, convulsing an image of troubled brains. I can’t but feel us—this man
of men, a bit too intimate with darkness; that favored war, that disruptive
volt, as driving paranoia; where some would fall, this dungeon of time—a
portrait of our case; this face of fools, as to wrestle madness, this love
gripped in fiction; so it mustn’t be real, after miles of thoughts, those
powers we mention not—else, to perish, this force of treasures, while one
steals second base; this face of motives, to debilitate life, while vying for
control. I see it plainly—this inner want, as swept into a comma; while hell
would cry, as defending its motive—those long conversations; to hurt through
churning, as wooed for submission, where a soul cries to live out prose. I’ve
cried to loose us—this cabinet of motions, seated near a furnace; to awaken our
myth, this thing of silence, wherewith, are tentacles, whereat, are whys; to know such violence, as to
grapple such violence, where souls have uttered not a word. It’s akin to
lunacy—this world of love, where a mere breath outlines a tome; this kef of
dreams, this catcher of visions—our souls unseen.
