I
must adjust, printed on porches, tugging this clove; that inner season, that
mental canvas, those trials by nature that love; to soon remember, of something
so wicked, as never before such life: that gentle death; that hellish heaven;
that purgatorial space; at once, to perish, if but to listen, that secret den.
It must have been life, our Adonis enslaved, by wretched this wave; to flee at
turmoil, as imprinted by mistakes, while Love denied a castle: this waking
madness; that pickled tulip; those days at arms with justice; while built as
perfect, a mind astray, at terrors that shattered pash. I’m slow to see us,
that correlation, while tugging at realities: those mawkish mirrors, treaded
through darkness, that grave of light—as came his mind, chiseled with a
toothpick, scraping that inner nucleus; to find your face, hidden beneath
angers, a stockroom of treasured memories; but oh to grieving, as to finally
realize, Adonis had nothing to go by: those vacant slots; that empty
cedarchest; that credenza of unappealing prose; to die alone, as to rise alone,
as to realize there was never Love; that inner person; that musicality; that
color of hardships; where Love would perish, as reborn to arms—our texture a legacy;
as birds chirped, while dolphins performed—in honor this thing that couldn’t
breathe. Oh for reality, this impartial dragon, tugging at threaded delusions;
this awkward confession, as forfeiting madness, to revisit that death; where
prose soared, by deep illusion, that reality mangled; to finally see her, this
brilliant winner, soaring her own songs: that miracle art; rewarded daily; at
tears that I died; while treading motives, to forsake motives, to abide by
forbidden laws; that inner life, filtered through kingdoms, where too much
ignited a fortress. I must confess, as dying while living, this place of
profound wisdom; to see your heart, as melded to glory—this furious fever.
