I
found love—drifting into comas, at flux this violent wave; to bathe in rivers,
a distance from brooks, while shadowed in black-magic. Share but a cup, Love; this wicked adventure,
to see self as something distorted; those velvet eyes, at wars with cygnets,
inflamed through raptures; to see a psych, but cautious to speak, where hell
embedded its nature. I wing and waft, aflame a cauldron, tinkling with
something kitsch; to see a man, infused with flying, to loathe that soul; for
various reasons, while time’s in motion, as brave as unrelenting. I heard a
seeress (female prophet), where hell was real, to see mother nurturing swans. I
was soon to smile, as bent through laughter, the irony of dying. Our wells
amuse, as afoul purely, while doting over a picture. I see us Love—through all
that is, cleaving to memories: our poor inheritance, notwithstanding riches, to
embark upon flights: this fatal charisma, that inner conundrum, that venture
for par excellence. Our seasons
probe, staring at follicles, peering into deciduous winds; where love is
virtue, but ever for reasons, to give us something tangible; at least to
hearts, that inner valve, revved by surprise your eyes; to perish permanence,
this loyal love, while angered over circumstances: our chimerical reality,
floating as fleeing, as to face the unreal; that time of cultures, that inner
therapist, those waves by charge a tsunami; to come to terms, if but at
seconds, to see for human powers. Our days are long, peering at diamond-rings,
while musing, Rihanna—and more a trance, to see surprises, while steeped in
raja practices. I love a swan, this velvet pariah, nibbling sacred ambrosia. I spoke to fathers, but hell was richer, to
know a lack of courage: I spoke to mothers, to see for flames, those women bent
on justice; but more to ours, this wealth of confusion, permeated by choices:
that trenchant woe; those treacherous waves, as flipping through portals this
dream; to love us more, as to disembark, this portal through time a rapture. We
come to fly, as well to conquer, streaming ethereal motives; this climb in
shifts, this spiritual activity, this aftermath of tragedy; to have that day,
seated as face to soul, cringing this morbid inflection. I love a swan, as counted in wounds, where
alarms ring throughout eternity; to see a spot, neatly tucked, as to effect a
serious winter; this locomotive, as such a word, as to speak to inner engines:
this wealth of rhymes, this psychical art, to flourish by ways of truths.
