We would to perish, this lethal love, agreed to fly by
seven; this immortal wind, akin to crosses, this loft upon fatal skies. I loved
an image, to fail its growth, this perish by traffic: our crystal
eyes—surprised to live, this sin by arts; to see your voice, painted in murals,
this dream-glory-scream. I died a man, to immerge a soul, peering at images;
this goddess by dreams, this welkin glance, this subtle disdain; to float our
pains, this mortal wound, as afflicting hearts; this chakra by tears, that end
to perish, as to live that easy approach: your sable skin; that glen by forest;
that time we both admitted—it had to be sealed, this cordial nonsense, as to
inflame remnants: this terrible terror, to effuse tragedies, this walk by
lights her names. I cried for hours, that inner Bhakti, engaged in mental
screams; to clutch for guts, that scudding sensation, to arrive this pitted
headache. I know a dream, plaguing his conscience, this woman by souls a
millimeter; to pistol afar, that reaming feeling, this bullet by nature a
spirit; as frozen arms, that warmth of kindness, as one attached to nuances; to
come alive, that keen second, to befriend a feature. It had to live, this giggle
by manias, this psych a vision of nomads; that mental chapter, this schism of
insights, as perfected with time; to hear that name, to know for history, as
one studied in manias; to afford the trite, to explain immortal, as to suggest
something hidden. We live by wars, as ends for refuge, as to trust but a few;
this gifted daughter, this mother as rival—those days where love was budding. I
remember good times, knee-high in treasures, as treated as lions; to find for
tortures, that realization, to know that affection lives: this grief by arts,
as trekking envy, to understand things as dying. I heard a tear, that morning
an earthquake, that afternoon a confession; to venture lights, that illumination,
a group of sphinxes: this celestial dream, to receive that loss, as livid for weeks;
while deep sensations, that spoke of spirits, as alert to defuse a maze. It
spoke of power, as far too rooted, as to resonate in silence. I utter riddles,
for most that see, to awaken in others that scream. It comes with time, a flood
of rituals, bathing in energies: this lovely dove, too far to reach, at once,
this casual muse; to hear that voice, echoed in pains, while passion looms
through cities; to touch his heart, as filled with measures, to afford one
final admission. I’m fishing dreams, this imperfection, while swans are filled
with angers; to hate but love, this father of errors, while a cygnet exclaims
contempt. I contemn self, that visitation, as channeled by spirits: to feel her
eyes, glaring through nonsense, this formidable cherub. It had to live, this
vest of woes, where eyes shredded scales.
