We
heard a song, beyond our brooks, captured by time; to arrive a dead man, filled
with pastels, to mimic a false impression; this passive harp, or this
aggressive flute, pictured at moments that birth; where swans glare, painted in
vagueness, (all those years of negative images); as becoming legacies, while
inculcated dearly, where to forfeit a search for motives. Our tides sing, those
flickers of ghosts, a woman twice his wisdom: our seaward sit down, stationed
at deserts, reaching this dusky cloud: while steeped in hertz, remembering
something said, afraid to sit near her father; but this is mother, that fatal
heart, as to hate forever those sands; to count a thousand grains, ashamed of
nothing—this outer fairytale—as bought and sold, to give a refund, cleaving to
images. Time’s a lantern, filled with cosmic lights, as vengeful as
leprechauns; as such a woman, to hate that man, (at odds him finding love);
this sick contention, as daughters listen, to witness blackmail. It becomes
apparent—our pains as one—this shared hostility; where father dwells, in pure
oblivion, subject to a wealth of spirals; this cord by souls, that electric
art, this furry buried in years—to hear of filth, while ours sits omitted, to
paint a puzzle speaking of innocence. It’s more, “He did this, while I loved
more,” as portrayed in old movies; where this is life, while pleading for
fairness, that lost diamond—as rays peak, to trigger intuition, where
measurements are drawn. It becomes madness, to outwit inveterate marks,
tiptoeing through damages: that crying circuit, to hear it for years, as
evidence becomes worthless: we see it daily, victims of a lost age, where
today’s song is quite unique: that buoyant soul, entrenched in sadness, paving
his way in literature; as sung our roses, where bees seek solace, this
intrapsychical event—this malice of souls, angered as foundation, a bit
unimpressed; to flit through meadows, to coddle swans, in search for unyielding
loyalty—in spite of truths, for such is nonsense, unless in our favor. It must
have been love, as now inverted, to stimulus such hatred; as falling forward,
where love was backwards—this sickly, tragic event; to hope for more, where
less was given, to share a woman with multiple men; this tale for brooks, to
side with death, this fever by far a daily occurrence; while driven our minds,
as to seek for solace, this marvelous soul; where laws are dangerous, as never
to respect us—that thing that was living.
