I felt a choir, ecstatic for love, this sense of mediocrity;
as something shallow, given through whims, searching for soul-man-ship; that
quiet power, this sort of fuse, as crazy as madwomen; that passage, floating as
to rise, a vex to his mirror; that deep intrusion, crossed and blinking,
fashioned in turmoil; to become proud, this sad happiness, at once, this outer
struggle. It couldn’t be lies, this thing of love, this contradiction; for
souls bond, through something abstract, peering at concrete behaviors; that
faraway sound, a lagoon’s contour, while feeding geese; to see that gait, to
hold that portrait—embedded in DNA. We used to love, prior to deepness, this
word flung about happiness; to come to terms, with something richer, this feeling
of exhaustion; as trembling arts, our temples of legends, stationed at a
portico; as standing at stillness, subject at suffering, this station above
sanity; this slight inversion, a tendentious love, featured in cinemas; that
structured forever—palms dripping honesty, our hearts fleeing through
caves—from soul to core, and core to mystic, this fever a balance to love; as
famished for fires, as flushed with favors, while to flourish as mere
flagrance; this heated coolness, this brisk motif, this woman the actions of
what he couldn’t be. It becomes us, albeit, such is satire, as we remember this
folly; where lights were dim, while ethics were numb, as one accosted morals;
this furious word, at once, an eye opener—to imagine how it feels; to straddle insanity,
pushing towards delusions, this thing a partial reality; wherewith, was damage,
that bidden self, while to mock a madman’s dreams. It shouldn’t live, this
inner vex, pushing to redeem a broken bulb; as parting pieces, to what avail,
chasing for reparations. It becomes pathetic, for what is this chase—but a
fraction of this ego; while never it lives, this thing of peace, whereto, a
shadow laughs hysterically.
