It
hurts like force, this spiritual wave, at forests to forget: that woman’s
flesh; that welted fever; this weal as woe; as losing our souls, this casual
love, despite our feral wings; where love was rapture, as never before, while
soon to lose luster. I garner sins, winded for abuses, fleeing this den of
cobras; to perish your heart, this fabulous terror, while barely to breathe: at
woes with fiction; at tears with truths; whereas, life abandons our cooing
fools. It was lights our death, this kef by liquor, while seduction devastated
senses: this demonic pain, as loud as ecstasy, where to ruin an innocent soul;
that child within, screaming for clearance, while ruptured through passions; to
see his face, or to hear his voice, this child gazing at Cleopatra: this dying
artist, reeling by souls, this call for compassion; to die by nights, rising at
morning, this pride to have loved destruction. It kills as breath, this myrtle
tree ritual, to find as Solomon our deaths: as electric sins, raving through
rites, as seldom concerned with image: such jasmine legs, unto jasper wombs, a
bit emphatic over turquoise eyes; to live our ways, as crazed as madmen,
gnawing while fluids trickle; this living poet, at tears to obey, this longing
ache; as everlasting, this imperfect strength, searching our indefinable. I
must advance, as sharing love, to have immortal seconds; this painless pain,
this melodious decoration—where hell would die, to touch such eyes, as entering
to retreat at climax; this web of hearts, this pagan’s lust, as such irrational
madness; as haunting ashes, this nectar of Gotham, this gothic slavery; to
perish rhapsody, at rapture our woes, a bit too gorgeous to commit: that
disadvantage; that open agenda; this man by ways his advances; to know defeat,
while addicted to silence, as tugging a string-less violin. I die to advance, a
man unadvised, longing for this woman’s confirmation; if but to live, as to
accomplish lust, while stranded near something unfaithful; this terrible
disease, as belonging to souls, as committed dearly to competition. It had to
feel life, these loins of fools, this stampede of deadlines; where sudden it
arose, this deep attachment, where said fool fled for safety.
