It’s digital chaos, smearing through ghosts, peering at
sable eyes; this inner conflict, to remember pain—this grain of foolish feelings;
as borne to measures, this pressure of madness, confused through dialogues;
this woman as young, so old in wisdom, to inflict a bit of turmoil; that casual
smile, as to affect souls, while crooked that light of days. I can’t but
filter, this terror of nights—this facial aura; as courted by hearts, pushed
passed limits, to erupt into mania: this woman he loved; as bent he couldn’t
have; that voice streaking through cities. I came for love, this conquered
sensation, as infused by jazz: this music of souls, as marooned passions,
stranded but found to liquor; this welkin song, as to utter truths, this curse
by fate our daughters; to see for lightning, this woman of Zen, to ask boldly
that blessing. It couldn’t be real—these fields of phantoms, as women mold
colonies; but this is life, to give as dying, where men eschew praise. I know a
name, engraved in white stones, to find us musing at 5a.m.; this tragic aria,
so deep that sorrow, as confused by tenors; to seek at solace, this fatal
dance, as to remember an auburn moon; this place of souls, as crooked this art,
to wonder of clearance; that deep havoc, as graphic as mystics, to dig deep
that ark; those hearts of fools, drooling by candles, as fevered beyond
recognition. I’ve tried to sing, as to divert anguish—this woman a dream to
imagine; this inner web, to know but images, to see so many channels; that life
of chaos, those deep personas, as to meet mothers time and again. It couldn’t
be real, every angle a tactic, as to emote a genuine response; but this is
magic—that self as damaged, while to explore through fakeries; this second of
realness, rooted in emotions, where our beginnings were forged. I can’t but
love, this woman of souls, as to affect a heart-cave; while falcons pause,
where eagles soar, as a squirrel tossed a chip. It shan’t evolved, this space
of images, while turned in several directions; to bless a soul, at distance
this art, to wonder of this thing called love. I must retreat, while gifted
this pain, to know of ruins; this face of fools, reaching for shoulders, this
chariot by infractions; that tender pearl—her eyes as philosophy, to imagine
this reign of daughters; to court a brain, this father’s dove, as searching for
clearance; to receive a blessing, this kef of ways, as gray as marble fens.
I’ve come to see, this world of angst, at moments, this epic travesty; tat pain
of souls, to love so loosely, as to find this mind has limbs; that cautious
lake, as treasured this rain, to see for passions this dying world.
