Swan-man-ship

It’s not to alarm, where a child is loved, this unspeakable essence—this tacit storm, at vocals this art, a caravan of whistles. We paint miracles, trekking through dungeons, a product of conditions; to alter this fate, through mere suggestion, to realize worth. We love so deeply, this new definition, where love becomes attributes; this feeling of gravity, this soul-man-ship—a daughter’s amazement. We live eternal, as soul to marrow, encrypted in certain sensations; at war to live, this pair of rags, as filthy as holy: dancing our song, while chirping our music, a daughter as a friend: this rich enchantment, to pardon negligence, as to give a face to folly; while ever to tiptoe, nay, while ever to respect, this wealth of inadequacies; that deep secret, this crypt of silence, as cryptic as molding clay; where two have tangled, while three have lost, this aura clouding behaviors; that cultic charm, embedded in souls—your eyes carrying eternity: this violet bias, caped in jasmine pearls, at woes to explore jasper diamonds; this thing of rubies, at voice to souls, this space of intuition; while feeling askew, a stranger to self, this growing adventure. I more than love you, this name of spirits, at travel this maze; to journey Africa, while sitting still, as to flourish in Europe; this deep inversion, sailing as seen, a soul at our mirrors; to splatter ink, seated in finger paints—a sister as a friend; this immortal love, while knitted to brains, this place of virtue. I know a soul, at needs this life, while blessing your household. It seems so light, this tragic event, where such love has a kingdom; this contradiction, to use this word, as merely addition; but love is rooted—in hidden spaces, akin to our kinship; whereto, are rites, this feyic tour, where hearts speak this verdant language; to know for reach, this person your sights, at once, this miracle affair; but less to love, as more to actions, wrestling with perceptions; this terror of arts, this ceramic tile, while tracing shadows. I’ll give us life, this trinket of reasons, and all those years; therewith, are levels of chi, these inner workings, as to realize presence; for all is myth, aside that thing, at tears, a concrete element.