Tribute to Prose

I see her as colors, forbidden this land, albeit, we trespass; akin to sin, this pleasure of woes, captured at gates; to see us prancing, this long goodbye, as running through deserts our return. She’s precious love, a swan in mourning, a hyena out of laughter; to flee this course, ushered by Satan—his tears a cosmic cleansing. I see her as welts, this deepness of pain, raining forth in laughter: that maniacal storm; that misspelled word; those verbs acting uncouth; as apes through anger, this jungle of beasts—that moment as a human; to cry for mother, that nearness within, to see her in that chair; this lavish scar, streaming as hard-knocks, blocked in this caricature; to know for tongues, this essence of woes, stationed in outrages; as never to conquer, this inner mongoose, while chastised by cobras.  I see her confused, an audacious cry;—too promiscuous to ignore; while seas invade, where ships retreat, as yanked into a hailstorm; this wolf to heart, tamed and torn apart, a drum beating through ages; as died her soul—our fallen to come, abrasive at times this death; whereto, are arts, that brush of fortune—as misbehaving through paints: our first to live; our last to perish; so accustomed to deaths.  It had to be love—our iridescent queen, this prism of dreams—a hologram to an infant; where doves would tarry, this fleet and fleece—or something so hectic—as wailed in lungs, this gravid enchant—this worship of metaphor; as often sickness, this grave of heartbeats—those seconds raking intellectual leaves; to see for distance, that jaded ownership—always a mile to closure.  I see her as wisdom, revealing at instants, to rearview a vacuum of insights; this empty space, as clothed in fullness, this dance with Logos; that fiery engine, aflame through chaos, as this spark which fueled our legends; whereat, we harvest—this vat of marbles, as to shift through change this substance; that faraway dream, while rescued from shelves—this treasure perused by scholars: that nearness come light; that further from obscure; as something prophesied deathly.  We love her more, this winded petal, as to morph ablaze—into a calming symphony; this wildness for souls, adrift this rapture, accused of tyranny: that inner abuse, to manifest visions, as considered sacred at intervals.