In
thoughts for weeks, the pleasure of hearts, as pictured your soul; to die with
grace, this face of fools, as natural as feng shui. I live a space, courting
your dreams, by purpose to fly; this darkened city, fleeing through traffic,
this ritual your soul. I loved an image, to know but a name, the magnitude of
this travesty: your heart in ruins; my throat as tied; this place we can’t
exist; while burdened that life, a psych as a human, a friend as a casualty; to
court a flower, that deep resistance, as fielded in portraits. I took to crazy,
as taken by beauty, to lose our frontier: our mothers watching; our fathers
grieving; this thing concerning madness; but more to features, as pulling
souls, to remember that crooked smile. I’ve seen it thrice, to die each time,
this piece of self afloat: that terrible passion; that clashing of graves;
those tired tears. It couldn’t be life—this winded lung, screaming as unheard
to silence; as bugs were near, to fuel such ecstasy, while this woman mused
gently: that frantic death; as sown in anguish; to give no more as given; this
furious beast—our wombs as turmoil—this sanctuary of deaths: that fabulous
grin, while hidden in sorrows, to extend but a tinge of light; as wrapped in
chaos, to perish softly—this prophetic outgrowth. I loved as broken, this
wretched curse, trekking our needed dregs: this soft aggression; that fatal
compassion; those times arguing with mirrors; to find this force, as course as
grits, this ritual by gaits our sadness; to see for months, passing through
fires—as to slant his perception—if but to breathe, that season of amore, as
foreign faces depicted in visions: this spirit of touching; as to feel so much;
alone this barrier of dungeons; where mothers cried, as hectic as semen, floating
through spacial times: this cryptic madness, to love your air, speeding as to
race your tendencies; that psychotic soul, without a chance in Paris, indeed,
this root of almond trees. I saw a vision, while deep the mania, to arrive at
doorsteps: this crazed light; this crying of ears; those beige pits; where love
is raw, as rarely seen, while fools claw infinity; that furious castle, as sewn
in silence, with never a reason to love.
