Those Eyes Painted Sorrow

I was coffin-bound—albeit, a rare convergence—that inner gallery; to render justice, as speaking to hearts, at membrance about a teal blue tulip: our casual friend; dying while wheezing; that sudden explosion; as courted by sickness, this genetic spin, as she mourns her firstborn. I grieve in patience, wiping away frosting, at war with the cake she chose: those jasper eyes; that burgundy wine; our fantastic years; where it mustn’t be love, as something so sickly, embarrassed to purchase prayers. I speak in vests, this advertised illness, afflicting a small community: that tear she projected; this want to coddle; that insidious smile; but more to love, this illusion for fools, as to mirror this rain made of words: that beige moonlight; that doodling pen; those houses scribbled-in thickly: this troubled soul; as asked to chart—this chest of woes; where sights are jaded, as never for us, but more those problems through them. Its casual confusion, where hiding is paramount, while pulling unsuspecting souls: this book of glory, from a perfect person, while hell pauses to applaud; but more to love, this delusion for fools, as to embed this image upon brains; that drifting wave, pulling at skin, as to welcome that intruding thought—as yet, more wishful, wherewith, to ignore stations, where a mother ponders romance. I’m known to perish, at war with mirrors, as fully alive in ritual; to touch a soul, as more those days than now, while parts meld as one: that faraway nowness; that upclose distance; or this need to graph silence. Its hell those days, as living that way—this pulling as to surface that way; whereto, this casual storm, that peach-fuzz attraction, where arms reach into limbo—to pull our souls, that fantastic fantasy—this dreamer of dreams; to sculpt his mind, this invisible realness, as cultured through sadness; that glorious woman, as able to give birth, where life is wanting without her; to rarely see it, this painting of winds, a song four years his soul: that crying chantress; those telic moans; where moments render a delicate pace; as dying through mercy, this curse of love, as to grip with sheer desperation: that ivory pearl; that sable enchantment; or more that inner lifeline.