Phoenix this Life

It echoes softly, Beyoncè’s voice, this fire stirring passions; this ocean of violence, this silent hologram, that mystic that cries. I’m at needs, flaming in fictions, sorting through pixels. I must this form, peering at Aristotle, thinking by Aquinas, musing with Gertrude; this fatal scar, this warm heart, captured but unseen: this legacy of tears, praying through desert weeds, painting a caricature: that inner image, distorted by perceptions, as to wonder of her adventures. There’s a sweet melody, coursing through veins, while sipping mocha; this field of dreams, this valley of woes, this woman that prunes the vineyards. I’m touching loquats, while slicing plums, reading our black holocaust; or even our capture, so desperate to return, while to experience awkwardness; for it couldn’t be, while it never was, this thing of blending in; as too American, while to wonder of Shakira, this abstract woman. Our tides are absent, as false as existence, as to lose that permanent particle; to cleave to winds, as tribal as Africa, sensing something’s askew: this foreign people, as beautiful as nature’s birth, while to envy this grated persona: that tour of ells, greeted so softly, this war of complexions; but more this island, purchased by horrors, while one skates through perfect images; why to love her not, but mere possession—our arms flooded with diamonds. I touched a snow-tear, while screaming at love—this word becoming defensive; as hassled by Greene, or embodied by Sade—this music seeping into tribal warfare. It’s more to see it, this eloquent queen, yearning to swim through mire; the mucus of songs, avoiding social status, while others grow ulcers: if mainly that image, that perfect crown, where closets are excavated weekly: to have that voice, cringing at freedoms, as to mock a vibrant dream; where hell’s furious, while heaven shows mercy—this favor for Rahab. I heard a question: I saw a vision; for this image I’ll never touch. I grew depressed; longing for broken wings; this grace perceived by fools: I talked to France, to ballet Egypt, at war this craving for Belize; that inner hardwood, that fabulous attraction, as to pursue passion with vengeance.