Release

Its hand yoga, this motion of wrists, a palm to a lotus; to fly freely, as released by life—into a mental oasis; this glorious feng shui, that inner armoire, as centered in a dying leaf; while electric this soul, to paraglide resurrection, where musicality is silence: that deep retreat; to filter such rapture; as received by palms. We push passed pleasure, seeking discomfort, that colorful resistance; as to glow by counsel, if merely to see, as to measure a wounded branch: that dripping sap; that texture of red bats; while nature is churning its cycle.  We flew to islands, parasailed pains, and parachuted maturity: we died through orgasms, to return through climaxes, as close as strangers: this field of execution, this angry child, as so young that tantrum; to experience love, this rare chasm, where dreams depend upon currency; to have such closure, seated in a hut—is mere miracles.  I could love colors, this Lego Land, taking tweezers to a lesion. I could grip composure, this fraction of men, where requirement is negligence; but such is deadly, to feign that all is well, while hell is forming an ulcer or more a tumor.  It’s become radical, and all for power, as to live an immortal life: that hope of faiths; that morphing through release; that shifting mood swing; to castle precisely, as to imbalance strength, when strategy wanes: those too gutted tears; while reaching skies; as to tumble over and wail: this torn release; that blatant heartbeat; those hours while gluing petals.  I’m with need to love—and need to sing—of something perishing by measures: as newly ingested; without tiles for treading; distinguished through zealot souls; this passion released, this kiss of angels, staring at a lotus to a palm.  That time has come, to bungee our skylight—this terrible faith; to have lived through trauma, disgusted by fumes, with a nature for danger: that mental song, eager for adventure, a bit too shy to resist: this feral dream; that land of screams; fashioned by this vetted release.