Swanship II

I called it long ago, this thing of personas, as sectioned in chaos; this inner war, to love afar, as seated in textures; this field of voices, that moment of clarity, as rivaled for daughters; to give me mine, where pain’s abundant, this space she couldn’t forgive; that long ago, eternal this sphere, to hate with such vehemence. I love a soul, this needs for strength, this stoic out-light; as craving fires, that portal through brains, this silent enchantment. I hope she reads, as filled with powers, to become that stature; for this is life, this welted procedure, to invest in young swans. I want us strong, as too resilient, as three, this luxury; to dance through turmoil, as intrigued with thinking, to harvest this vest; where this is love, a friend at needs, to die alongside a spirit; as ever reborn, seeking as for change, this brain a locomotive; where this is you, this woman of passions, clashing with ignorance; to see as mountains, this thing to climb—our days as bodhis; to claim with vengeance, this tide of families, to feel this connection. Your aunt’s a falcon: Your cousin’s an engine: Your extended family is holy; to see for Pretty Boy Floyd, this fiery McCormick—at woes to defend the county. We’ve died to live, a family of secrets, as committed to empowering swans; for this is rain, this gentle sensation, while earth is inverted; to conjure spirits, to afflict with chi, as borne to this electric wave; as ours is motive, this thing for sisters, as brewing a pot for brothers; that empty, Marchand, that vibrant, Fisher, those tales surrounding pictures. I long with fervor, to display an album, while situated in caldrons; this place of wolves, myself included, where we paint for portraits a perfect image. It couldn’t be life, to love for fun, while others die electric; to see that woman, as kind to children, to feel such affection. It kills for souls, as born to extract, where art becomes savage. We love a swan, as broken in parts, this chance by lights our deaths; to see beyond, as dead to life, that far deep in rituals; to poke a heart, to give a blessing, as this is worlds within cities. It must be love, to hold so dearly, peering into madness; to see this swan, so close to home, as to imagine this, Elizabeth. I, too, am hungry, to give this vest, as to influence life; this great event, bent by commas, to electric this art-fall; this inner calling, as gifted with trances, to dip by chance this filter.