We search for closure, peering at life, this inner Pacific
Coast; to find for rubies, this awesome essence, at once, a tale of thieves. I
saw a vision, this gifted swan, speaking Spanish; as meant to move, this
rapture of motion, this mirage becoming human; to take for sights, this robotic
fixture, while to yearn for humanness. We run to joys, this purpose for life,
as involved in pleasures; this inner moral, even Utilitarian—that close to
pain. I know your genius, built by sandy shores, alive but frequencies; to have
lived thrice, this dolphin as symbol, in-love with seeping waves; to forge a
mansion, that near to hearts, reading through fine prints: that broken
contract, that demon’s blood, that ghostly contour; to see for passions, this
clashing session, exhausted by humility. I love with purpose—steeped in
seasons, our winter approaching. It must be love, to ruin so much, as reaching
to fix heaven; that legion of spirits, those eyes of bark, that hazel moon;
where parts are sorted, to mend disasters—so close to losing sanity; as pushing
brains, this needs to see, that something esoteric; this lambent heart, or
candescent friends—launched into orbit. It shouldn’t be us, running from
literature, at woes concerning tragedies; to ignore love, as something
abstract, where life was given breath; but this is strife, streaming through
brooks, where pressures distinguish character: that inner print, stationed at
voices, this myriad of doctors; to see reflection, this zombie of souls, that
quickening reality; to vet a dove, as something immortal, as pictured in biblic
psalms; this place of psychs, if but for peace, as carrying heaven. I know a
soul, so precious to heart, at tears, that fatal cry; our outer weather, as
skiing hells, at wars to preserve this bliss. I kissed a spirit, while speaking
in tongues, this thing to keep as secret; for life is normalcy—not to bend
brains, where some seek that void; this space of strengths, to return as
altered, this struggle to find mirrors. It had to be love—to extract a swan,
this sprinkling of particles; as known to perish, birthed through cultures, as
borne to love. I reappeared, as thought for dead, while stressed by ghosts;
this inner dimension, blotted as portraits, these parts fretted to breathe; as
turning corners, to hear a horn, steady at green lights; to know this fraction,
bent by realities, while chased in seated motions; this thing of sighs, to
engulf an ocean—this miracle woman. I’m sure to drift, sketching this maze—a
petroglyph as an omen; to see perfection, this moment captured, longing as to
rewrite that segment; this inner man, that outer woman, as both are striving
through paintings; this space of souls, as courted by spirits, alive that
second of truths; where death is rebirth, as birth is incarnation, while swans
steep into spheres.
