Piano Birds

Oh this pride—as to lose this self, while dreary that art; whereto, this felt endeavor, while nevermore that pain, as to concede to nevermore; this clever aspect, bubbling with love, a cauldron to a heart-cave; that deep invention, as rambling in sequences, as to infuriate—Love; that field of mines, that maze of years, while sought slower than molasses. We felt in spirit, this lively flame, whereby, this silent shame; thrust into looks, shook to find love, our appreciation planted in soil. It mustn’t be love, as mere a glance, this chance upon charisma; to admire love, greeted through turmoil, as suspicious as mother’s wit. We must remember—that keen affliction, as treated to terrors; that in-between, those beige contours, to stand accused—with neither flame nor fire, that slow aftermath, that current sensitivity; to write in vain, as such were feeble thoughts, shifting through paradise; wherewith, were hearts, as begging, Forever, for what gives but little; that furious song, that neighbor’s voice, while sung through captive eyes; that deep enchant, that crystal upon thoughts, that trek so near to crying; if but that flute, this spice of dreams, or rather, scissors flinging through visions; to slice what was, to reveal what is—this shadow haunting memoirs. Ours is terrible, as hectic as origins, while treasured now as infinity; this chapter blessing, this priest of whispers, as cordial as one that suffers. We knew for distance, that something repulsive, as to ensure this present dance: that cello of woes; those days with sorrow; as to grip a symbol by Beethoven—or more to Chopin, that nocturne pianists, feeling in weakness such courage—as to love a song, while birds are praying, as breaking with melodies—that terror this love, as strength to bone, or more such skies as tiptoeing closure; to want it for silence, this wretched lot, a bit confused about—Love—with more this soul, dangling at skylights, sipping something precious with darkness.