Furniture Hearts

Beat into a rhythm, almighty heart—as captured in a sudden glance; that mirror of shames, as years divided, to remember we loved like rabbits—this furious soul, to brand a tuffet, at tears to realize our hatred; this fervid feeling, floored in pains, at fevers to extinguish darkness; this feral drum, this kettle of minds, this war we can’t see; to pay a friend, as to hassle souls, while said friend fell in-love. I’m more a soldier; your more a lover; at hearts we commit to deaths; this breath of swans, courted through niceness, where said niceness detracts from existence; as mothers battle, a fallen grandmother—so content with warring forever; that casual venom; those lemur eyes; that bone growing into hemispheres. I met an Asian, this glorious vulture, at tears to acknowledge those palms; where love was wanting, as to loathe this soul, while years would speak to admiration. I clawed a heart, this voice in cultures, where swans watch in amazement. I know a man, our daughter’s lenience, while broken in parts that earth. It took to madness, as seeping within, to court a grandmother; for more that son, adrift through trials, to realize this could be my son. I know a father, at schism this breath, alive that moment to hear truths. It’s life this shame, while pegging a young tent, as cordial as a madman’s dreams; for years would come, to ruin affections, while in secret a heart pines—for more than glory, but maybe friendship, to know, I killed a soul. I’m breaking cobwebs, peering at a vest, where all I need is this mystic; of course, to perish, for hearts are enchanted, with one loathing this soul. It takes for patience, to rev so high, a force by way of education; to pray this soul, as something forbidden, to extend beyond those silent meadows; where truths are fractured, for they lack a voice, where grandfather tears at a hidden motive; this snail of time, to piggyback affections, where chi forms a locomotive; at heart with Zen, at woes with Yogis, at tears to confess this Raja; for mines is Christ, leaning into silence, as to emote but a fraction this voice; this thing of lights, this inner pyramid, this fact that souls are ethnic; to ponder origins, this forbidden color, at wants to love but waning. I met a kindred, this inner credenza, to find for heart that memoir; this motion in arts, that mental impulse, this coach by words your ink; to fall forever, lingering in space, those airs to suggest that all is normal; where pain would dwell, as feelings failed, a man too slanted to breathe. I loved a snake, to find for purpose, where hell invited coyotes; as broken in time, this flaming Bush, a current too crooked to capture. It takes for swans, to lighten a heart, where perfection becomes a sudden moment; to chant aflame, as staring at cultures—this woman that must sing.