While
luck had us, we dined immortally, captioned
in floating dreams; this type of error, to believe as men, peering at Calypso;
this weekend heart, as gracious as power, as rapacious as addiction; that
loquacious aura, painted in silence, racing through electric souls; as faced
with dying, this mile of miracles, this reborn penmanship as prose. I read Wisdom,
those airs of Detroit, skating as to relocate her soul; this fair beauty, to
earth with time, a rival for floating hearts; as measured with slants, this
space of Brimhall, this cadence a refuge in Smith; where times are actors, that
lavish cinema, that time we would as we couldn’t;
to feel eternal, immortalized in ink, this hallway by chases of Herrera; to
find our death, this temporal kef, lashing out at ceramics; that anger my soul,
to plummet as passive, this woman draped in beige; to have that night, broken
for shattered, as each piece becomes a hero, or more a heroine, reaching for
doves, as infamous as Maxine; this castle above stars, this falling into
ponds—our swans grinning each tear; this love of life, prior to runaways, as
fumigated in pine-sol; to die professors, our arts as subtle, to cleave to
creativity; as would Josephine, all souls included, racing through
Universities. I dare for chance, to have this crown, as reaching myriads of
souls; to see Calypso, so brave as aged, as beautiful as mother’s nightmare;
this partial kiss, with eyes held downwards, as a palm caresses our heartcaves;
this churn of days, as light would contend, this dangerous, Trethewey; or more
to energies, fleeing through Mississippi—as hounds scurry, this inner location,
our limbs dangling through treachery. It’s more to love, to have died our arts,
while Dove crochets a destiny of souls; this acrylic paint, splattered upon
boxes, where roses are sprouting from cardboard; this chase of cygnets, this
watch for centaurs—our mornings appreciating hindsight. I met a pen, as tide to promise, to give
pieces of this soul. We danced in harmony, for projects a mile, while reneging
on contracts: this hell by arts, this flower as acidic, this flesh as tatted
with ostracism; to curve this light, our brains to furious, as panting at
brooks: this lavish picture, those palms of dragons, rushing to freedom by
seas; this certain betrayal, as hearted to songs, where unsaid love correlates.
It’s time by portraits, gazing at
Dickinson, amazed by similarities; those mystic cries, by way this soul, as
ignited as gasoline; to morph through flames, this tale of hearts, to create a
legacy; while mothers peruse, as sent to adjudge, where daughters muse upon
eyes; those loquat features, steered into madness, as to live captive by sins;
this grave goodbye, as purple passions, this museum of poets; that itchy
sacrifice, as transformed in seconds, to space through letters as atmospheres.
