Breathe II

I prayed to let live, at grace this tear, while hell would find us; as sorted in particles, this want for passion, too warm to break free; this lavish feeling, torn by fantasy, this sylvan our luxuries; to trek your heart, spewing contradictions, too enslaved for Adonis; this mad fever, bathing majestic, this need to touch while breathing; that last chapter, traipsed in ink, to with pride forge an addendum: this furious soul; this jaded goodbye; that cry our welts as broken. It had to be us, this raven beginning, as curious to nuances: this breath of wisdom, peeking through tides, to negotiate this eternal disdain. I found us distant, protecting some image, while breath to soul our brains; this thing of lies, conjured through fears, to demonize an absent gesture. I should have courted, as to prove a point, where feelings would possess substance: that woebegone; that ecstatic distrust; that need to tell friends; but I lingered in silence, as winded as leaves, pursuing something solemn: this coming to; this fragrant mind; this slant through illness this dream. I welcomed trauma, by chance this art, to see for hypnoses: that dangerous soul, at once, green, too at home with perfection; to edge us out, this ghetto of souls, as tales became personal; this inner chase, fleeing as to breathe, running right to charms; this arm of women, this brain of scholars, that chance by neglect this pain; to see us drifting, this thing of ifs, while realizing our sun has perished. It would soon be years, composing as possessed, while evaluated beyond measures: this word for heaven; that flesh as paradise; our awkward embrace for passion. It shouldn’t be, this thing that must—to exist as existential; that crime of hearts, a pagan as Christian, a yogi as a mystic; to find reproof, or hardened reprimands, this woman our souls that mirror; as grave as breath, this world of wins, as to grin through mention your aura; where this is life, to pine forever, as to realize we need not this love; as this is rain, this grief of fools, to advance while running through meadows; this casual glance, this need for opera, this faint admiration. I’ve cried our woes, forever your soul, as kef through rituals.