I
know our fears, pictured at love, gripping to bells—as not to alarm, for casual
pains, filled by endless joys—this portrait of sadness, this holy suffering,
bent as plastic our souls—to conjure life, or censure feelings, at wars to
elude our precipice. I know your passion, that sudden tsunami, asking for my
wretchedness—if but that inch, our prodigal emotions—so sacred as us dying—to
feel existence, pinched in seclusion, at fields this cave buried, as deep our
sands, this land of nowhere, to
sudden upon our dungeons; where vultures roam, pinned by sex, this extent of
that love. We had a swan, so casual our
airs, The precursors of love, where
scandals aflame, something specious for mercies, this false propitiation; as
climbing forever, broken in shades, writhing as to cleanse my soul; this new
rhythm, with time—ingested, to consider our darkness; this sedulous psych, this
saturnine cygnet, this sagacious swan—peering through cities, as each a bit of
souls, captured by magnet attributes; to see for one, that thing in others,
while sitting at silence; this frantic dream, our taciturn ways, this push
through prose our consciousness. I envision writing, that sudden clarity, where
a thump ensues—as knitted in names, as boiled in shames, where pains flew into
infusions; that core resistance, as pushing through charms, to know this magic
through force; to see it daily, while remaining obscure, This thing for heartaches; an inner tirade, this terror of stars,
that space by chase a yogic flight. I loved a mind, this inner mulatto, paving
for a magnet swan: that inner lady; that charming voice; that scratch or itch
to succeed—where souls are threshed, as one too jaded, my soul this image of
scandals; as so intractable, this sanguine ruse, or more this joy to suffer. I
know not this light, as more to live this light, where we resound through
waves; as breathing in sequences, this inner consequence, to open by
layers—this place of woes, embedded in joys, that reach as esoteric—to chase
forever, as to finally let go, where swans peer into motives; for I couldn’t
die, against God’s wishes, as to descend into those deeper regions; to lose a
soul, while to gain a heart, to push towards a rescue mission—where souls
escape, filled with dementia, probing human minds.
