I knew more to art you—to think us into majesty, while
mourning our chasm: to watch you through fey, this countess of souls, as grey
as intentions; that inner web, as given to tragedy, but far too authentic; to
swelter through lies, that silent sound, echoing through inner trenches. I’m
most confused, concerning this plight, while asking of sincerity’s arms; this
charm about fools, as acceded through traumas, while reaching in reverse
through time; this vague example, laughing as it mocks, while one paces a
perfect dungeon: those eyes about burgundy; those fortified tales; that too
close mistake; as baited in souls, as gravid as torture, as petit as that last
smile; this ontic bent, this melic curse, as traipsing tears upon marsh. I love
you more—than abstract prose, as metaphysical as love—while scientific, that
thing about souls, where one knows your name: the grass is purple; the stars
are turquoise; our grimace—the fire of suns; to have this second, as stolen
from evil, while resting in sutures; this fabulous dream, as to outlive the
grimace, where pastrami is something about a symbol. The soul is
infinite—roaming through sensations—as such a beacon for glints: that rapid
motion; that stressing mind; those flames the sparks of cosmos; as greeted this
love, this mental friendship, as noetic as mindstuff. I art you more—this verse
through portraits, or rather this voice through chants; to arrive in seconds,
as challenged by time, that thing of a thousand dreams; where lurks her heart,
this layered canon, desperate to distinguish life; that raw intensity, as to
find a friend, where substance is lenient. I know a dream—scudding through spheres, as
flitting through screams: I know a swan, as set to break free, where
contradiction rules insanity: and I know a friend, this purity about love,
flying as we witness explosives.
