So
much a gesture, that tender anguish, surprised as eyes water: that fragile
line, that skyward gaze, our innocence writhing through realities; to die at
joys, revved in spirit, winding through tribulations. I love this pain, this
evasive texture, to sense such love: committed to woes, this station of souls,
fraught with resilience: to lose so much, while fighting for freedoms, this
mind of shames: that inner need, to exist as goodness, while harassing mirrors; that logic-self, at tears
through emotions, craving our neighbor’s joys. I caught a glance, this furnace
of insights, a group of souls losing fathers. I know this ache, a child so
young, peering through windows; as sensing arrival, where none had come,
listening to Bootsy Collins. I ponder this bill, that telephone reason, to
suggest all is one; that something to die for, that internal hello, those
moments fraught with energies; as none to feel, dying this life, while mother barely
breathes. I’m back to love, those shiny eyes, that wayward spirit; as resisting
tendencies, bound to chains, afloat our horizon. I love a shadow, this glorious
field, as fretting this tension; to come to terms, featured in hells, as to sit
in sciences; this petite psych, pushing for closure, while gravely nonchalant;
or bent towards therapy, where raptures dwell, this need to confess
infractions; but more to love, this fabulous woman, as vulnerable as
heartaches; while reaching forever, this family of souls, shooing a pack of
raccoons. It had to feel pain, in order that it breeds, as breathing through
tunnels; to see this face, embedded existential, at wants for guidance. We die
this way, obliged to perish, if but our woman’s sunshine; that tribal feeling,
that pagan dance, that Ghost by way our nostrils; to see with sorrows, this
mystic of chimes, hanging for falling into madness. I’m sick to heart, reading
psychology, avoiding this cathartic binge; as bent to prose, those woes of
fools, at membrance this psychotic teacher; to chance at lights, fearing our
daughter, where parents fathom not: this weaving soul, thrust into magic, while
charged by contentions; to cast a spell, where hells break lose, as to cry in
silence; this welkin glance, peering into insanity, where mother is but a
mystery; but back to love, that inner countenance, seeping into personalities;
to carry this woman, while carried in turn, this union our ways through
passions; to see for lights, this pregnant admission, fleeing for flying into
mishaps. I know for pain, that subtle gesture, as to think through contours;
this thing of motions, gripping a feeling, while to interpret through
experience; this shift through times, seeking something subtle, to arrive a
mother’s aura. I must confess, this running by nights, to avoid anything that
is mother; for hells are real, this psychic turn, flaming as boiling in
turmoil; where women soar, as living reality, while a bit churned through
interpretations; but long it lives, this art of prose, fleeing through desert
lights; where breath is force, as life is deaths, where it feels good to love
you.
I didn’t capture it. I’ll try again.
