We live with purpose, this purple storm, at wars with love;
to see for faces, this bent reality, to hear that whisper; as shared with
souls, at velvet corners, bleeding through eyes; our rosy souls, captured in
webs, as fighting for clearance; that silver swan, to know of colors, a tulip
to Africa; this Asian minor, as skilled with hearts, to touch this mental
reign; at tears to live, if but that second, as to come to terms. I call it
cursed, those hands of mischief, angered by truths; but this was life, as long
to live secrets, but fools come to wisdom; as morphed again, while borne to
knowledge, at pieces to puzzles. It happens that night, to see it come morning,
this woman as smiling; where hell is touched, this facial explosion, to read
through paragraphs; that turn of souls, to wonder of pains, as to hear, “I love
you.” It’s lost, my love—peering at shadows, as to know of self—this vacant
island, at silence his name, to feel those families; that torn goodbye, that
helpless cry, those waves searing through hearts; as broken to shards, this
method of stars, to see for mystic adventures. I love a swan, this cultured
soul, as reading into gestures; that tale by arts, as crucial this song—in
needs of mysteries; if but a venture, as cordial as science, this wealth that
essence; to crave this love, to know as fevers, these waves our sparks. It
shouldn’t be life, to feel it as cursed, while love speaks a specious language;
but this is days, chiseled for structure, as to harden souls; this inner
blessing, this field of blue, this terror of nights; to see for rapture, this
myth of truths, featured as livid through cycles. I know a name, this merchant
of souls, connected to myriads; as singing to glory, that treble beat, as soft
but humble that power. It had to be life, dealing with envies, as sorted
through languages; this passage of grays, or even Morning Stars, at woes this
havoc of souls; that grand affection, to see for paradox, to love us enough for
pains; but swans are gifted, as dancing through ponds—this trek of waters: that
mental glance, as deep intuition, swaying as swerving through spirits. I know a
swan, as electric through sorrows—this want for normalcy; but hell to pains, as
to achieve greatness—this needs for rains.
