Alas!
this dismal feeling—to reach this missive fire, as stunted tersely, while
captured but tension, those many those few for words; to see but sorcery,
glinted as drums—our faculties revving as flaming: our rapture but normal, as
candid a thrust—our hearts but points of spears: this being by vest, this criminal—my head!—those bars as fettled
dungeons. It storms internal, that watchful gust,
to come by winds that trauma; wherewith, is fire, this keen illusion,
fighting as worms that sentence; to pull so far, to renege on life, this fever
tugging for clarity—(I’m dear with God, revving
this Namaste—at clearance to perish
your love): this wild delusion, as living confusion, to wander this vehicle of gusts; that charging spark, to pamper a
book, as introjects wreak havoc—his brain!; as abused deeply, this journey of
water, at tears for years that made him cold: this furious engine, tender but
moments, refusing torture; to war eternal,
that force of misfits, carving at this knitted bed. I loved at loses, this
copper infusion, as silver manifested gold; to pull for curtains, that sudden
force, as riving adventure that purpose. It couldn’t be love, this field of
giants—so late he came to Church: this
magnet thought, as pure meditation, our
theologians running for bread; that inner sipping, at rites to bleed, tugged by
lance this chance of souls; to couch such eyes, those years of powers, to see
this gust as raving—or maybe too madness, this village of feelings—or
maybe too vengeance; but it couldn’t be love, to sing our nuptials, a pair of
depressed souls; as living joys, as discontent, chasing this miracle!—this ink
of weddings, as gauged as fusions, piercing by light this sight of
concentration; to build eternal, these
powerful souls, each a potter of gifts; as shooting stars, to wander that ark,
gnawed by sharks of thoughts: our pass to turn; this churn to fast; our urn
courting mass. It had to live, this
terrible terror, reading our last thump; as death would die, as life would
live, this ground of mediums; to
forfeit treason, this deep communion, this man frantic with gates; to see Sedona, this space of
angels, nodding at confirmations. I’m lost to see it, this rapid fire, as volts
have grown stronger; while more a surgeon, knitting legacies—our gusts as falling heartbeats!
