Foolish Love

Ma y I seem foolish—as to speak of love, while clowns sing: may I speak of permanence, this foolish endeavor, enraptured by an angel’s skin? I sought this closure, engraved in rock-art—our souls as crimson bones; that fragile cage, this love for mazes, while sick our bleeding breaths. May I seem foolish, as to die forever—such this pleasure to perish? Our days are young—sailing as to feel life, and banished to endless charms: those porcelain vows; that vase of daffodils; that sore squeaking for solace. I’ve found eternity—this mixture of change, flavored with insanity; those shards of love—our lungs groaning death, while cherished this fruit of bars. Is forever so far—that color that speaks, were cherubs to paint a blessing: our unwritten lives; those unfinished chapters; while scraped in this book of light; to mourn such faces, as joined hip to soul, while gesturing for winds: if more to fly, our hearts as kites—our chills as brilliant stars; this pervious fortress, hawked upon by vultures, to see us laughing in righteous shame: those roots of agony, while printed in blood—this flesh threaded in woes: that fatal kiss—our bodies to melt, as to whisper, “Mystic tyranny.” May I seem foolish—as to welcome love—this woman as gorgeous as Africa? I must be foolish, pictured in chains of glass, too awake to feel for rest; that toss and turn; that seething churn; our hours but seconds of this life? It couldn’t be magic, but something of essence, as to blend a series of worlds: this foolish frenzy; or acidic tears; this joy raging concerns—as falling ascension, or skating abed, this thing for floating minds: oh may I seem foolish—as born this mishap, where time is but a blur—this instant chase, at pace with lions, as proud as priestly garments; to ask for mercy, those tales of love—our hearts to sea.