I’m
liquefied, this molten fever, poured into essence:
our maverick swans; our comporting swans; our swans a bit of both; to see
conviction, this thing of ruins, peering at dregs of purgatory; as pure
affliction, cheerful apologetics, racing
abound that chase. I’m but a man, condemned for actions, standing a stranger’s
tribunal; to jeer at God, this question of activity, as hazel eyes flicker
flames; this cauldron of oils—this gold and silver, this space of losses—as
such severity, to smile towards redemption, this fruit a symbol of schisms. We forfeit
love, shaded in pastel grays, to want such respect, as tyrants that respect, as
pierced by kindness, to kill a fraction of mirrors; those garment confessions,
while indebted that love, strumming this fever—while deep that auction, as to
sale those pieces, these things that proffer balance. I’m horrified, traveling
this existential, concerned with such dregs of life: this shimmering dread;
this intractable woman—as such loses a swan for privacies—this furious fever,
constricting lungs, as catered to by fires; this fabulous woman, an addict
those years, as filled with flames—this fever of souls, this molten spirit, as
liquefied for Christ—as palms are closed shut, where The Ghost fevers hearts,
as to explode that region of guts; as non-affection, this thing chasing homes,
while slanted towards transgression: this fight
of sanctities; this pardon by
Light; those facts, that life, an old chase—to pace a soldier, concerned with words, as forgetting culture. I’m
terrified, this life of feelings, as courted by whimsy—to die such graces,
effaced by mercies, to withhold such mercies—this casual sin, as not for
reprobate, as still, an infection of spirits: those closed palms, as seeking
ghosts, to chime with prophecy—as more to listen, withdrawing dearly, this
space in hearts an entrance; to dance eternal, churning with Love, as rebuked
for tragic sins. I proffer a vision, this swan of souls, forever our
seraphim—for speaking motion, those travesty words, as provoking two
forces—where ours is immortal, these
waves of arcs, dearly for dead-alive—as chiseling facts, dying in fragments—our
nudges holding us hostage; to see that face, encased in glory, pointing as
witness our tribunals. But blessings our souls, as privy this Ghost, traveling
by grace that fire—as born afflicted, to see such mercy, to feel for course
this Force: this Light of days, piecing through mire, as rags purified in
molten—this wave of dimensions, to explode by art, this fever by mind our hearts—as driven by kindness, this
choice to receive, as to ache by mirrors our souls—this crying castle, this
inner fortress, this indomitable spirit—pushing through vengeance, this twofold
mansion, while embraced in sheer delights: to hold Forever, by wrists to palms, severed by thoughts: while mourning
Christ, as cheering Christ, this explosive paradox!
