Rivers in His Mirrors

Fly by morning this soul; wetted by holy sorrows; as a child whet for mother. I long for closure, this fleeting angst, as it ebb(s) through currents; this title of sorrow, as this filibuster rages, stressing laws of physics. Our dance is mental, as familiar spirits, clashing with scriptures: that thrown resistance; that mother with child; that bleating in our prophet’s ears; as wealth through crows, that inner rain, this storm driven through cages. We’ve melted wax, peering at eternity, asking those minds of temperaments: We’ve chanted sorceries, an arrow to a target, afraid dearly of powers. It becomes terror, a man and his visions, testy through a sea of dragons: our nerves grieving; our minds seething; while slowly it erupts. They heard it not, as it crept within—that sudden fire; as casual trekking—through marsh and mud, a feeling slain by capture; to see this face, pressuring eyelids, a stranger to a conscious mind. There’s holy sadness, that dripping ecstasy, this forbidden dialogue. It mustn’t be death, as to die that death, while to arise as unborn: this vest of waters; that shattered chaos; those moments of closure—as indebted this host, a ghost to a man of minds, as gripping this existential; to race and flip, this chase of life, while dreading deaths. It couldn’t be mercy, as suffocated souls, that closer this horizon; as eyes screaming, while silence debates, this outcome for one whisper. I’ve tallied our cries, as knowing this motion, this secret to stirring fey: that tale he told; that ruth that lives; as one disguised in myths; to see this face, this woman of dreams, clawing at a moment that cried. We ignore screams, shrouded in this image, where algebra slips our grasp; to measure this breath, seated in a den, this woman a part of his psyche. Our Tao is unsung; our systems are exotic; while we chase this endless chain—to find for cuffs, wherewith, to pick at locks, as breaking free for seconds. This fabric our dreams, whereto, this inner hunt, as greeted by silence: this scarring of tissue, as spirit to substance—so real to one this reach of truths; to pierce through minds, this furnace of souls, as one exhausted through inks.