I Need that Soul

We praise substance, so trivial this laugh, at peace with combat; to flee this world, covered in briers, seeking ultimate solitude; as centered in thoughts, nothing as closer, as paranoid in thoughts. It becomes casual, seated at a bench, peering at mazes: gazing afar, reading Camus—sliced at core this existential; to wander near knuckles, this inner web, while tears fettle gardenias; that driven pinch, urging us forward, where abed we crawl: so sexy her style; so alive her mind; this woman our friend to picture; that dreaded death, as outer resonance, as acclaimed for substance; to need that voice, this inner therapist, craving something impossible; that garnet soul, that maroon wit, those travels afar that room; to cope at will, a man’s resilience, while mother would pout. It becomes heaven, to have this flight, this astrological terror; while scared to confess—“I need that soul”—while pushing to break chains; this frantic picture, that bulbous pain, such sweet beauty that misery; as shadowed to live, this grave of woes, painted in perfect pleasures. We couldn’t, mulattoes, storming through cultures, at peace with inheritance; if so be this charge, as wicked our eyes, to cast upon life disdain; while channeled for love, this vague adventure, as often to suggest a casual friendship: want of obligation; tragic this omission; where torments come as rivers. Our days are short—plummeted by reality, seeking solace by war; this core captivity, to will against power, this need to subtract such strengths; but this is art, that wealth of pressures, at tears this day that month; to know this heart, something a humble villain, at mind a dangerous course. We sought to keep it, this segment in time, while taking to soul flowers; those colors about tragedy, such plays we study, at tremors to read psalms; this prime visitation, while holding palms, at once, so close to lose this love. It couldn’t be sadness, searching through meadows—upon horseback this trauma; as yet it lives, this acrylic misery, as gorgeous as sullen happiness: that so near ache, planted in mental soil, at soul this captivity.