To Excuse the Precious

Hail the tendencies, this rich dejection, to want for terrors; that fatal injection, as magic the sudden, peering into travesties; while long to live, this short encounter, as casual as forever. It burns with fever, this moon-sky goddess, at war with seclusion; to penetrate darkness, while folded in lice—this skull for scratching.  I love the silence, while sitting seduction, as staring at traumas; this riddle for souls, confounded by gain, while to wonder of logic: its strength and width; that violent song; to invest in falling banks; where it couldn’t be real, this faithless kiss, as courting such fidelity. I’m gnawing worms, this bud of sugar, fawning over, Athena; this vicious love, as visceral as thought—this vivacious tornado; to feel for earth, this potent womb, while forming distance; to love this world, while drenched in rain, this song-wheel of traumas. I sought to pardon, this vixen of woes, abandoned to inner soulquakes; as born to perish, this vast in-between, unless for stillborn. It’s a must to live, this flux of sensations, while groveling for tulips: this Paris tour, while speaking France, as forced to escape; but rain is fair, this choice of gardens, as to believe in such as balance; that great event, tunneled within, where one enters, forced to exit; or more to love, this excuse for failure, as gripping this silent face: to have for pain, this product of pleasure, as reality scorned. I fret to panic, of such a session, running from our pendulum; where diamonds scatter, as minds to burn, pinning over a broken scar; but this is art, that thing to mourn, fevered at this wake of prose; where flavor tugs, and mercy bends, this graph of minds; so more to losing, as infused with life, while grounded in us; this fret of souls, in-love with fuses, as filtered in flagrant fancies; where life is death, this inner journal, at wars to confess the tortures: that long estate, while staring at graves, affected by a black in-between.