Beloved Swan

I see us flying, this leaf upon winds, as mesmerized by unions; to flee caution, as two ascending, balanced by conditions; this human affair, this glorious mane, this perfect contour. We’ve died to youth, as old as wisdom, cringing from too much knowledge; to have lived afar, but now so close, our hearts beating as one; this full infusion, feeding magpies, kneeling near a lagoon; as permanent vessels, to overcome doubts, this swimming to take its toll. I charge us, Love, this variable of stars, as scarred as too much flavor; as milk to wine, this sore effusion, our minds clashing with nonsense; but tell for mother, this inner secret—there was love as it budded; to flee from grays those thoughts of pain where two soared through havens; as casual friends, or courted lovers, too afraid to hold forever. We must forgive, where rain spoke of deaths—as so concerned with those last moments; but more to swans, as drifting comatose, in-love with mere gestures; to hold his hand, or to kiss his palm, too concerned with experience; that thing today, to meet this love, as two harkening to night winds. I love us fierce, as to challenge grayness—those brooks streaming through your mother; as filled with prose, this melic storm, or a thesis that is long overdue. I met a tear, so gone this pool, as to feel through eternity: I met a cygnet, while seeing features, where mother appeared; but this is love, this unmentioned dimension, as it affects our heart-caves.  Your mother is gentle, but filled with hurt—this woman peering into sadness—as charmed by love, but infused dearly, by this fantastic world: She mentions life, afraid to live, as one participating fully; to want for arms, as strong as steel—that concerned with living this life. I watched us dance, as scared to tumble, where people mentioned our broom. It was sheer romance, as to perish romance, where one fell lethargic: to see so much, in such a short time, as to compare would be friends; as wanting eternity, that first feeling, as this need to feel alive; but love wanes, this need to recharge, for beginnings outweigh our egresses; but this is life, this feeling of pains, as informed our weather is crucial; while more to therapy, this inner soul, as bold as to confess, “I can’t”; where tales are sung, this thing of swans, as gorgeous as an infant dolphin; to sing of tears, those years of songs, our orchestra resounding in ears.  I love us more, to love you sightless—our reasons embedded in genetics; to flee this thought, as to render to motion, this sight of hearts; to feel such thumps, even through mire, as to know this ache; that face of wars, those arts of confusion, that piece that flooded our media; but let it be gold, this moment of love, as to forgive my misunderstandings; but wanting for more, despite this thing, while Kathy rumbles through memories: that sheer affect, that castled dream—these tests rummaging through conditions; to know depression, but still persevere, those seconds streaming through, Bryan.  It mustn’t be real, this forte of chaos, as a family dies softly; but this is vision, those moments at home, while alone puffing cigars.