Swans Are Musing

We live through struggles, as raw as feelings—that enter this harvest blue; to exchange voices, at course, a soul, this angular mentality; to fight through harms, as challenged this night, while love lingers as abused; this feral strength, to appease at will, as opposed to such by nature. It couldn’t be life, as fervent as grays, this haze of miracles; but this is magic, this inner piano, pushing through mire; this marsh as maze, this math as affliction, this torment as days; to prolong deaths, that beautiful scar, as to confront personality. We gaze afar, that syndrome of drums, this beating spark; to hug a sibling, to see a smile, this genuine chaos; prior to jadedness, this color upon humans, this jasmine wound; to drip at random, this pulse of angers, while psychs probe at distance. It becomes poignant, this inner pinch, where ribs gasp for breath; that beautiful dungeon, painted in desperate grays, as mothers enter for peace; as known to drive, such innocent souls, unto a captive beast; this bestial heart-cave, this inner soul-print, this voice of monsters; as more for civilized, as rarely seen, courting to capture a glimpse. It’s more poetic, while sought to find, as knocking at mother’s door; to drift upon brooks, a Buddhist to a Nun, to suture a bleeding lesion: that tender heartbeat; those wicked ways; that guilt that molded theologians—from arts to tenets, from tenets to precepts, through hell this mayfly adrift. We knew for wings, so young to hear, this thing of success; where mother cried, to see perfection, in-love at arms that addiction; to float at dawn, running through fields, as to pause for loquats. I danced freely, at odds with life, as to wonder of such plights: that casual grin—filled with chaos, that broken excitement; while birds chirped, singing as to fly, this thing about suffering: those plush gardens, that nanny as friend, our grandmothers raising myriads; to see for panic, this thing of color, a mystery to naked eyes. I more than love us, gnawing upon lemons, filtered through sugar; to run for hours, agaze’d by sights, where mother watches for our health. I know a dove, in-love with truths, with courage to face for sorrows; this intricate edge, to push to arts, this woman frantic with rains; that treasured need, to compose symphonies, while confronted by inner orchestras; as born to live, at war with spacecrafts, those imaginary worries; to color our lives, while Hopping Scotch, this thing about Rubik’s Cube; to invade islands, this picture of minds, searching to affix a miracle; this airborne love, at hearts through woods, at once, a place of motivations. I know her heart, darkened by sadness, at wars to love through profanities; this language of scars, so far that dream, painted in crevices—as ever to tug, at men to live, this face screaming at mercy: this blatant demand, to move our fingers, peering at designers. They call it more, this rapturous secret, racing to construct a castle; but more to love, as pure this sight, a swan with curly temples: this wave of souls, fleeing as to rupture, this mind of treasures: that welkin beat, that silent power, those moments affixed to trances. I heard a knock, at core this soul, to awaken spelling Yahweh; this intricate force, this structure of names, those dreams that prove intuition. It had to be life, this armor of meadows, to sit at statures this rose; for such is passion, to see beyond texture, this thing of insights; as long it lives, to breathe as one, confounded by sheer Spirit; this space of love, this soul of arms, this reaching passed flaws; that human condition, in need of skylights, if but a moment upon a prayer; to hear perfection, this tiny whisper, while held in trance that kiss. It mustn’t be false, to enliven souls, this secret we dare create; but more a drum, this kettle of stars, ajar our hearts to grow; that driven eyesight, those furrowed brows, that time to pause through silence; if but a dream, this thing of feelings, at once, a friend of love.