That
inner space—your topaz eyes, abusing calmness; as strict demands, to conjure a
ghost, this inveterate insecurity; to fly by wings, as torn as onions, to weep,
whine and cry. I love a flower, wilting come summer, where winter devastated
petals; this mystic mile, while craving love, this peril’s intuition. I danced
at dawn, that twilight fever, as ferocious as near enchantment. I loved a song,
this glorious woman, as your eyes refused love. We died a fraction, this match
to gasoline, as but one night of tortures; as cried this love, embedded in
shallowness, to expect more for nakedness; this missing arrow, to abuse cupid,
while terrorized by gestures. I loved an ache, where Christ was born—this
travesty of warfare; as meant to perish, trekking desert-storms, afraid that
love might inflate. It had to live life—this feral passion, a bit unsung to
Tao; where sable is brown, while malaise is darkened, to move by motion—this
pain. We loved an image, filtered through illusions, while love broke a
mansion; where dice were slung, to pause a lucky seven, as built in moments
that kiss; as cried our nights, seated at swings—staring at raving tides; that
to and fro, that ebb and song, those crabs clawing into sands; while meant to
die, as meant to live, this paradox unraveling sins. I tried to love, beyond
measure this life, where hell focused on wisdom; that terrible admission,
whereto, was sorrow, this thing pushing into realities. I called a ghost, as to
touch a heart, where response was instantaneous; while love lingered—this
treasured denial, as to, this vicious admittance; where clocks were screaming,
as time stood in motion, to realize our sun was falling: this wicked grave, as
gothic as something dark, to pave a sentence while shivering. I loved a flame,
while flickering in ice, as to melt a glacier: this terrible song, a fraction
of love, where Love ponders as deranged. I’m staring at pictures, this minute’s
escape, to fathom this thing of beauty; where psychs would cry, to feel that
pain, a bit distorted concerning life: this fabulous cycle, as steaming through
boats—this arc flooring our inhibitions; where love was real, a second
detached, to awaken in foreign arms. I’ve cried too much, concerning this
vagueness, where harvest is ripe for abandonment—as always is, this deep
unction, while running from hallway mirrors—where love is gray, as so is life,
to pyramid a station of bluebirds; that casual sin, embedded in brains, where
life would have us guilty. I imagine this sin, as fully a soldier, trekking
forbidden gardens; to die once again, at arms with love, to return a peasant at
souls: this furious passage; this inner mayfly; this Christian hypocrite; as
not for pain, but more this song, to crave forever a lost organ.
