Inner

It’s more than sexy, while more than love—this thing as potential; where life changes, to see events, this inner advent: our minds as wombs; our women as doves; this thing about children; to flee, fly and frantic, this board of mathematics—this drift through infinity.  (I died your name, as pushing for fortune, this thing you resisted; for I never came, and never would, this awkward situation; to ponder fiction, this inner graph, those chills seeping through art).  I love a swan, as plaintiff a cygnet, this world of green eyes; or maybe hazel, this outer coffee, fleeing as to fly this fortune.  (Ours—immortal, this tide of years, our days fraught with pavement; to trek marsh, this sludge of brains, drifting through inner dregs; to push like falcons, at war with squirrels, this thing our lions watch).  I must confess, this inner feeling, as to use words for much. I’m want for verbs, this telic chapter, while drifting through cosmology: this sore divine, as purchased by prayer, as to become this vessel: our inner mirror, that faint lagoon—that ghost come enlightened souls; this favor of woes, as spiked to advance, this daughter experiencing the esoteric.  (I love us more, at tears to defend, this sort of mystic madness; where hell is virtue, as heaven is favor, this flavor surging through fools; to live as pagans, feelings felt through fevers, this thing our souls have mastered. It takes for courage, this infant glare, to reach for father’s mustache).  I must retreat, as wrecked and broken, this task made difficult—for love is purposed, to see you fly, at odds with mother’s strategy.  (Our season was then; our virtue is now—forever at this crossroad).  I saw a vision, this tiny spark, as more explosive than engines; to court a fancy, or lie a dove, this passion as close as bones; to manage culture, this thing of styles, as one worthy of love.  (I fret and panic, fettled by life, praying this fairy of dreams; this fantastic soul, at want for rightness, while surging through inner conflicts; this place of pains, while time is moving, to feel this self as stagnate).  I came to conquer, this hellbound offense, at once this attraction; this marvelous whistle, cranked to perfection, as to wrestle through heated abandonment; but ours is sights, flowing through nouns, at once, a carrier of inflations.