I never saw us, at some verdant park, seesawing with
laughter. I saw chaos, this wealth of insecurities, manifested in promiscuity.
We lost integrity, and flourished in omission, a pair of scarred doves. It
becomes life, a series of souls, with aches through grains; this harvest of
turmoil, this shadow about joys, those boundaries to feel significant; where a
stranger comes, as treated to royalties, while a baby’s father is greeted with
disdain. We merely watch, as to utter silence, while determining worth: this
gray infusion; a slice of orange in gin; this sweet tasting cigar. I rue us
not, as lying for peace, a host of issues to address; this therapeutic—this
casual sin—this person we need to trust; but ours is panic, this thing about
humans, this terror about mirrors; to shift through waves, a nun to a priest,
at war through our images. I’ve come to terms, with something chaotic, as to
paint my life in tragedies; this thing with souls, as to conquer a slither,
about this art of joys; as pictured at moments—this daughter as an eagle, that
queen as a falcon, our mothers as voices; this wrest of words, those inner
portraits, our brains as partial friends. I speak of secrets—this crowded room
of loneness, where feng shui is but a patch, about this horror, our need to
feel needed—this wealth slipping through crevices; as lighting this
furnace—becomes this sewn way of life—this something about humans. I never saw
us, at some type of war, this want for graces we couldn’t give; to see at
peace, this long sought journey, while some find comfort;—in all that we
suffer, this moment of security, as feeling through territories. I could but
smile, for love was inverted, where hatred became so warm; this thing it was,
for this thing that is, as this art becomes confusion. We need outlets, someone
to speak to, as to free our minds of guilt; that inner parade, fueled by
trance, that second about too many pains; to blend at best, this never-could-be, while frantic over
stature. I should say love, especially, for status, but this is sheer
deception; for hell invaded, as to cut spirits, where one was cleaving to vests;
that vulture of styles, those waves of lust, that route to rejuvenation;
through broken arms, as to accuse love, of leading us into travesties. I knew
not this wind, as burdened with courage, too ashamed to admit love had
perished; as given this Ghost, so young this heart, too bold to walk away; but
it lives, this ache through visions, to see us fraught with disgust; while they
watch, as learning this behavior, as to repeat our examples. I never saw us, as
loving forever, where others would be forsook. I saw us living multiple lives,
while dinner simmers, and children speak of sciences. I saw us proud of
courage, stressed about love, going through various segments; as to forsake
selfishness, that month of devotion, that second we loved again.
