Southern Moon

We know a tribe, as varied our souls, this inner portrait; as oh for screams, or proper tenets, to course this vein of souls; this manic lot, as feuds this light, at wars this therapist; to see for days, this grave invention, at peace this inner feeling: that vote to life; that casual ritual; that outer professor; as chilled in coals, this welkin paradox, to see for passions that art. I love a swan, this beautiful dove, at pains a mayfly; this dungeon of woes, to vex a grandma, at tears this velvet memory. I could but die, this tension of prose, at wars to extend; but this is false, this maroon eye-glance, filled with jasper; to see for nights, this gray moon—a child for our mothers; as born to Christ, this valve of souls, to illuminate hearts; where death is life, as light is darkness, this inner understanding. It mustn’t be real—this test of minds, as challenged meta that science; this math of physics, at chi this love, while furious this claim; to bounce in color, this world of energies, as fraught by realities; that core as broken, that sore as mended, at tears this walk of ventures. I love a swan, painted in golden eyes, as filled through contours; this jasmine rose, as topaz pains, while life becomes taupe. It shouldn’t be real, this feeling of ghosts, where passions clash with suns; that christic ark, as paved in blood, this dripping by nature; as brine to souls, this scudding lost, to see for purpose our beginnings. I needs for souls, as to cross this vex, this meaning as crucial; where hell is passive, this inner pentagram—a reflection of divinity; to read in scripture, this art of traffic, to see through culture our origins; that mental wake, at beats a casualty, to morph into a giant falcon—that squirrel running, as to dig a pit, but life was ending that venture. I can’t but fly, feuding with daughters, as to evoke an inner jinn; this field of laws, captured by love, as singing to lights this dance; where help is self, as to enter souls, where all are vying for clearance; that fatal song, as touched in hearts, to ask of Zen this secret. I love a swan, to see so many, as needing a father for love; as courted softly, this inner doubt, while reality proves his purpose: that outer island, at chance a bear, this thing for cuddling; that graphic page, that inner memoir, at tears, to cast aside that invention; to know for brains, this swan of ages, that closer to breaking a curse; for this is life, this inner ballet, at soul, a vest of portals.