Cryptic Vase

I vanish’d our pains, sipping as menaced, this frightening light; to see that self, immortal as time, this dying sequence; to live at seconds, while never to return, that paradoxical second. It takes for rest, this inner disease, as filled with purple essence; this violet arch, that petit crevice, this lowly disposition; as seeing eyes, this swan as queen, a bit too cold for justice. I’m optimistic, at arts this pessimism, this driven contradiction; as enlove this life, that fatal contrast, a man to lose his life: this fragile woman, too strong for reason, as birth’d through canals; to trend with pains, this inner Digest, a bit afraid of this outer demon; to scream for love, this shallow affection, adrift that quarterly mile; as pure to lights, this dove by stature, at wars with morals. I heard a swan, this inner spirit, to capture nuances: that shifting tilt, that outer lilt, those mystics at scars to ascend. It couldn’t be life, while a bit too mellow, to feel for fragrance this feral fire: as so aloof; while broken in halves; to love but thrice this journey. It was pure that moment, a bit for clouded, as to accept this fleeing motive: that change in time; this frantic blur; where Suzan mused; for death was us, that second we kissed, as to exclaim this moral curse.  We mustn’t die, to something so timid, while affected from heart to soul: those swanic eyes; that cultic tinge; that color too difficult to define; where music singes, as to sing of sorrows, while tomorrow is fraught with joys; for textures pass, this well of truths, while heartache affords a subtle glance. I’ve taken courage, this place of pretending, to remember mother as a jewel: this foolish ache; as misunderstood; as often taken for granted.  When a man loves, those marble kisses, that floorboard of promises; his eyes die, as filled with mirages, while so distant to realities; to see a queen, this woman his eyes, to ask of whether the earth has churned. It’s quite confusing, to enter a dream, while such is much glory; that beautiful diamond,—ashamed of hips,—a bit for purpose that deceit; as livid his mind, this concentration, to want so much for his swan: that casual hatred, as taken for truths, this miracle to see a response; but this is life, this partial love, as committed to a selfish slur; where hells are thoughts, those gilt’d perceptions, to feel as an Idealist: that inner grave, this outer swan, those days bent with secrets; to feel for dirt, those muddy waters, as trekking this marsh of feelings.  (Princess)  We had to die, that eyes could see, those errors or ways in jars; to court a feeling, those rays of Eros, as fevered as a frantic wilderness; to kiss but once, as to love but thrice, that time tears rolled into pillows; but this is life, this grand appeal, this opera by chance our swan; to ponder, love, instead of friction, at odds to remember those seconds; for hell is real, this courage to defend, this man at laws to transcend: our choking days; this furry of nights; those inches seeping into majesty; to love this prose, as feeling this self, to realize life is more than living; for these are grains, this threshing floor, to issue a sudden convulsion; those bleeding wounds, as sutured by faith—that day on islands to reappear. We loved a vision, our daughter a mystery, but time to hell this objection; for this is passion, as soaring through caves, this forty year trek; as flitting to fly, or scudding to live, this miracle vase.