There’s
richness to it, this sad perfection, fraught in intimacy; to touch your face,
our voices cracking, our liquor spilling. I loved you rising; I held us
falling; we arouse as beauty. It takes for dungeons, this inner praise, as
giving glory—that mighty feature, that fallen tear, this treble heartbeat; to
frown on life, this hectic force, while to find a rhythm: this mystic sorrow;
as caressing palms; this latrine of dying worries. (Dear God: we die so often,
spewing at phantoms, amazed by ghosts. I know a soul, as tears fall—to dig
within; this marvelous woman, my tendentious slant, as finding power. Oh this
love;—building a fortress, even our cross: to pick it up; to lay it down; to
wipe our faces in agony). I met a soul, as more our equal, wrestling with
phantoms; to cast a blessing, to see a smile—our walking into wilderness; this
kiss of myrtle, those high grounds, growing in energy. I loved a story—as so
fatidic—this journey of our hearts: to praise in anguish; as losing through
gains; where all is magnificent; as such a sinner; to arise a theologian; or
more a child of God. Oh for torments, those violent screeches, mother as a
victim: arising forever, this place of hearts, this arc of passions; to see
your face, as father’s neglected—(there’s a blessing in this room tonight): our
crying souls; as fraught with victory; to speak it as a giant. Oh Lord—this
inner pain, killing in parts, to seek light through praises—this place of
faculties, to keep it secret, to want to speak—this inner legacy, to harness a
breakthrough, to give it to Christ. It’s pushing forward, this thing of
cultures—to call us emotional; but what for mystics, and what for yogis, and
what for Europeans?—this thing of lanterns, this indelible fire, that space we
met for hours. I needed to weep, this tree of wisdom, as more compounds an
element: this type of furniture, this settee of arguments—(our universe
attempting to define it); as finding segues, rooted in deer eyes, our daughters
seeking direction. I speak to knowing, to realize love, this thankful soul—as
walking our forests, a bone as a myth, a brain as a bit skeptic.
It
had to fly, this feeling of praise, where humans move fey—as favored by souls,
speeding through space, seated in a loveseat; where love would swell, this tale
of arts, that thunder to pains; while drumming hearts, this mind of souls, this
system of inner amazements; to love a soul, as slanted with bias, to destroy it
for nothing. It’s so cathartic, this fervid inquiry, peering at faces; that
mystic dynasty, this inner castle, that edge by error a triumph.
