give
me life, this eternal mischief, to return to burning eyes. this man of dregs,
aside his bars, this prison of beauty; as locks brittle, this needs for
moisture, peering back at sunny eyes; to court his future, this inner
chiseling, as mother’s deathbed; this vanished soul, to perish alone, as others
robbed the dead. it’s long goodnights, short mornings for glory, this message
embedded in aunt’s eyes. i hear us pawing, amazed by dungeons, this tinge of
freedom: that dark goodbye, that murky Sunday, those tides through daughters their
cries. we ablaze history, that turn of respect, to mingle through forests this
waking; where father roamed, from cities to states, this cultic turn. i saw an
image, weary to fall in love, as obtuse to its truest nature: that human curse,
that future hearse, this blizzard by ways of medias; as crying forgiveness,
while filled with torments, this thing painted in joys. our churns forbidden,
to travel through London, to christen each podium; this fever i yearns, to
absorb such mystics, at whys to know
this name; while deep this urn, this Jenni in a vase, to float half-body this
heart: upon Wednesday Ash, this series of ghosts, to flood a Frederick Attic;
as buried with time, a legend to souls, to have given thrust through years. i
sighed our passions, to mistaken such distance, this soul this want this fool. it’s
cryptic lights, those codes for reasoning, stranded—eyes open—that trek; to
exhaust love, as built at seconds, while to retreat to eyes: that dye of
minutes, this treacherous outcome, at once that daughter’s soul; as mother
ponders, this creator of life, driven through motion why sitting. we blame
sodium; we harbor doubts; anything but, God!
i lost a mind, to return a dove, weary of such beauty: this trepid sight, this
voltaic night, this plight by gifts that blessing of tears: to salter his soul;
to saunter his garden; to dress as one addicted—to glory to fame, or glossy
eyes, that intrepid rustling; as days to burn, those firebrand eyes, as
tormented by opinions: those lavish scars; that immortal heart; those ways at
stations such vomit. i needs to love, such volume to souls, as one crazed with
purpose; to see agendas, as slight invitations, to advance a stage of
travesties; as long we live, as mortal-immortals,
our legends captured upon dreams; to hold that soul, while to feel that
moment, as to urge for its return.
