It’s
a terrible image, that beautiful woman, this internal firefly; to strike
insecurities, to wander through love, to embrace a touch of pain; this
marvelous swan, so young to heart, as seeing vaguely; that ambiguity, streaming
through poets, to remember a cygnet; that past-life, struck by gold, to imagine
a green-eyed dove; this formidable woman, a bit for ignorant, a horse at
mourning. I climbed a castle, to scream at God, for something a misperception;
as not for excuses, but more realities, seething a contorted countenance; while
Love brewed—this stew of warmth, to witness a psychotic man. I know a psych, as
glory those years, to perform a sophisticated rant; as broken in parts, to meet
with waves, as knowing how to conduct; those terrible secrets, to touch this
inner person, while fully intoxicated; as not with liquor, but more with
spirit, dying to reach a vacant soul. I love with purpose, to know your face, a
bit terrified to confess—this chase of honor, this wealth of prose, this black
paradise; where people watch, as to assess your soul, while jealous a touch of
never endings; this place of tears, to realize truths, as a woman to loathe
your father’s guts; for more that shame, as to see imperfection, this want to
sex a perfect spirit; where tales are told, those buds of bark, to witness a
branch as forming. I saw a crow, this harbinger of death, to follow this soul
city-bound. We enchanted phantoms, this woman to see, bending to read a tattoo.
I’m lost for prose, seeking a new journey, for I forsook a falling scar; to see
your aura, painted in portraits, streaming Beethoven’s Fifth; this inner
heart-throb, that lawn filled with gnomes, this winter as cold through heat; to
see your face, sketched a daughter’s light, to realize, I worry! It takes for
time, to divest a thorn, where you should have soarred: that psychotic man,
broken in selves, to appear at your doorstep; where flies swarmed, as to
confuse Confucius, this Asian exploratory. I know for pain, this repeated
event, as reading through Brownings; where love is rich, as times are hard,
while to perform as warriors. I must to shift, before saying too much, this
thing we wrestle with: that furious poetess; that fervid feminist; that man a
bit chauvinistic; to see it in parts, this uttered Kierkegaard, while praising
his writings; to see imbalance, this world of foes, where women posed as men. I love us more, as to feel instead, this woe
of loveliness; these margins of fairs, that sometime thump, a bit enchanted.
