It Became More Than Spirits

It’s chilly this wave, an inner rebuke, as southern introjects; to live it ghostly, this furious fantasy, intrigued by ignorance; that know all life, that insecurity, flooded by angers; to find adjustments, confronted by facts, as left gripping brains; this place of joys, filtered through woes, at tears, this crystal night. I thought to find us, at seconds that peace, to discharge this agony; but this is pain, as needing to grab—our souls as mystics. I fell ajar, grappling our return, at cores churning through hearts; this inner diamond, this frantic swan, that thing to life this fate; as torn asunder—our misery of peace, those particles at wars his days; to see us grieving, this needs to know, about something so sacred. We met a thump, to reckon by name, to reverberate violently; where this is souls, speeding through visions, at place this space of silence. I could but perish, this thing of travails, at mercies, this night of swans; as parted dreads, that vibrant manicure, at purpose this scar: that fabulous song, pilfered by madness, to have that season afloat: our doors to sing, this inner compartment, this vestibule of ghosts: that phantom afar, that outer opera, this mystic aria; to touch a face, lost in dreams, at chills this inner face. I love a swan, at turns a star, at needs for balance: that ivory flesh; those hazel pains; to remember that second glance. Our channels are ruptured—fevered through omens, as borne to something uncanny; this mythic truth, as frantic as phantoms, hands at shakes that instance. It must be love, to finally let go, as to plead those arms of faith: that gradual magic, that inner space—that chase through island caves; to reach for hearts, this hart of prose, as heated this heath of fires; that casual dread, at needs to suggest it, but at tears to suppress it; this furious soul, at wars with ghosts, too proud to confess it. It mustn’t be dreams, at woes this fortress, as singing a forbidden song; to know validity, at strides to revere—this secret a scar to Love. I see us dancing, while laughing at pastimes, somewhere personal that scar; as broken deeply, at feuds with life—our powers magnificent jewels; to court by nature, this admiration, at throws to impassion our offspring; where life is puddles, this pudding of reigns, as ashamed to love by mystics; that curious ache, imbued with hearts, as seeping into mischief. I can’t but flee, staring at portraits—that era of Rembrandt: this pious art, pulling for reaching, at seconds, this telic mirage; to find us musing, peering at ghosts, a bit so blessed: this angst of souls, as deep psychiatry, fluffed into madness. I know a name, this internal war, at pace this reach of spirits; to love us more, by distance that pain, to venture by prose this life.