Too Many Deaths, my Love

We explode through passions, grieving the metaphysic, as something so real, but aloof dearly, pushing and pulling, that inner engine, whereto, as remaining hidden; to catch a glimpse, embedded in darkness, as so rich our sorrows. We wail the epistemic, inverted as pragmatists, while laughing at envied dreams; this casual air, as bullied by doubts, even a yogi at wars to say, God. Our truths are subjective, aside for bio-spirits, this trail into a suspicious arena; as to conjure such ghosts, or to affect such motion, drenched in radiant confidence. Its mental agoras, dreaming of freedoms, as ingested as energies; to have such futures, this pride of swans, confused by the grayest mirrors; this question to sing, of something so real, as to wonder of this thing called sights; to enter ceilings, to invert the roofs, as to stand atop the skies; this feeling of fools, as envied for confidence—this silence of bleating sheep; while wounded grace, treasures forgiveness—this war to unscar the mountains. It becomes fever, that portend air—this fashion of antagonists; to song our wings, that inner ballerina, but swans to naked winds; where life is empty, the fullness of skies, while a nun out-prays a lamp; to move from tables, indeed, to porches, a firefly and resurrection: this sore event, a mother with child, as to wonder of this glow. It’s more a dream, this need for sandpaper—our praised novitiates: this dark event, as centered in space, while to awaken, falling—those screams and sights, that vacant forever, as a swan awaits a promise. There’s love to give, our political views, living through oligarchies: that fatal position, to hurt through protection, as to bandage this endless wound; but this is pain, whereat, are thorns, this brier seeping into thoughts; to repaint mirrors, as to repair life, a rebel and her makeup; so long it lives, this turquoise image, as failing, Picasso: that tare and star, those faces running, that holy arm inverted; to see through pictures, the ruin of ideals, seated in such symmetries; but let us dance, as children of love, as weakened by something genuine.