If
not for sins, those aching physicians, able your flights those skies; while
skiing steeply, at bays through sable eyes, this gentle complexion; as haunted
by liquor, those aches by livers, to pause a fortnight. I loved an alien, as no
one could see—this shift in turns; that angular cry, embedded in smiles, as
curious as one dying. I loved a fortress, at once, enchanted, for something
foreign spoke our grains; this woman made wild, as seeming so humble—those
weekend tales; to flee from sanity, too cold for taming, to use, abuse and reappear;
those hearts for casualties, a man to his woes, if but one child—for taming
self, this fire a storm, cutting through something unseen; to drive us mad,
this silly young soul, while sudden that favoritism; to die as Nietzsche, or
pine as Kierkegaard, as skies he could have reigned; as feeling so lost, too
bold to move, too cold to love; as both to fiction, this attic-style woman,
peering at something sightless. I heard distress, while fevered as a fool, to
give at pace, refused; as longing for months, that sudden pash, while favored
as one insane. I chased a pencil, while to call it, Woman, a bit too gray for
colors; as racing through madness, this feeling beyond measure, every line a
statute of thoughts; to feel us cry, forged in unbelief, as willing to perish
that dream; as so confused, this place of ethics, a theologian heavy at
throttles; to feature make-believe, seated in anxieties, to snap and retreat.
I’ve
done little this life, courted by woes, affectionate towards nightmares; as
surging planets, this breakage of minds, that internal upwelling; to drift by
song, that name as ventures, while love remains a dying heroine: this space by
hearts, fleeing from mirrors, to see self as one winning: those gravid sins,
this biblic scar, where earth spoke of our queens; to live that life, miles
from reality, whereto, we return a furry of furious fires: that woman watching;
that mother swooning; those days, at times, a daughter laughing. It had to live
love, this caged affair, as never that reality—but more a vision, soaring
through cosmos, as alive as our last thump.
