I called us light, this fantastic soul, a bit for ghettoes;
as achieved at midnight, this morning glory, as to enter as animals; this
reaching future, peering at grandma, this woman by means a spirit. I died
today, this graphic shock, as to realize such keenness; that gentle soul; that
tempered woman, as to earth this soil. I had for heart, where hearts had us,
this furious dimension. I felt a psych, that moment clear, to realize
affections; but this is running, where souls are aches, this feeling deep a
mindcave. It shouldn’t be light, this dark confliction, as husbands debate literature;
but this is life, with soon regrets, that outer negligence. I saw a dove, at
woes with chi, to seek for holiness; this feral land, as wild as geese, this
squirrel trekking through valleys; that inner swan, that distant mother, that
man raising seeds; to see for days, this grave infliction, peering where dreams
never divulge—that inner wave, as borne to letters, while typing they sung—this
fatal glory, to die a child, as becoming that misfit. I hugged a tree, speaking
at apes, this monkey as something his genes; this chimpanzee, a riddle to
sphinx, abused by thoughts that tulip. It’s soon to perish, these remnants of
thoughts, as to have angered a psych; where truths exist, as foreign arks, this
space by chance an omen. Our souls are churning, alive with love, to feel that
first glance; to cycle through souls, to feel but one, this thing a torture to
hearts. We live at loses, abandoned to existence, as to figure for formulas;
that distant fortress, those birds of song, that cry by lakes his baptism. It
had to live, this witted wind, as pushing to enliven our woes: that captured
ink, embedded in flesh—his love at soul a friend; where hell is law, as joys
are passing, to reinvent this wheel. I used to out, as now to sip, this bottle
screaming our psyches: that inner song, those repeated lines, this ghost by
face a magnet. It couldn’t be life, to lose so much, at tears to confess our
dilemmas; but this is art, this tinted abuse, while singing of love this angst.
I heard a swan, while speaking through fears, this magic as white our psalms.
It must be life, swinging though traumas, to arrive at grace; where purpose is
written, this tragic embrace, to find for peace that resistance.
