Soul-Chants

I love her dearly, as dearly to die, while filled with analytical anguish; to see those eyes, as watered with grains, this fever our fires restrained. I love a swan, as few would see, where rituals tug that infant soul. I love a cygnet, as arts shall venture, while alert to this common blockage. Oh for blackholes, streaming eternal, as one this christic mind; to feel each thorn, plunging into palms, gripping for falling into tongues. I need to love, if space is gentle, this charm by ghosts—our immortal hearts; to plunge a city, as digging through holes, while souls gesture our arrival. I hear a feeling, as gifted with chimes, to echo a century apart: this fevered flush, this plus experience, that second in time as furious; to feel for fears, this holy agony, while screaming for saints. It took for time, this scoundrel of arts, to bless unholy eyes; this deep contempt, while loving Christ, as permeated in a small office. I’ve died our union, while courted by ghosts, as to witness this other world; where grandparents flourish, while mothers nourish, this born again excitement. It should be hopes, to erect a mountain, as to climb those shoulders. I heard in praise, this immortal arm, as falling while dying those claims to heaven. It takes for time, to see this motion, while a spirit kisses our lips. I was needs to feel, that vacant touch, as mortals become this liquid spirit: to feel a psych; or to whisper a sage; while deepness this mindcave; as pushing forward, to touch that heart, as love would prove immortal: that second in time, that moment in feelings, those blessings streaming through eternity. I love mother, this vicious force, as orientating a young novice: I see for pain; I have that word; I know when to retreat: this is mother’s soul, to raise a spirit, where grandmother gave elasticity; this feral band, to bond a family, where aunts put to practice those gifts. It took for love, this shedding of souls, this yogic captivation; as near immortal, while snatched adrift, this Spanish adventure: our Latin ways; our French endeavors; our Danish rites; where to float—straight to Africa, while hated for pigmentation; as running home, this broad America, peering into this rising fall. I call to life, as a daughter exists, to plummet that tiny heart; while furious a dream, to curse that soul, as feeling dead. It loves this life, this fervent force, as revving this vehicle. I must confess, as eyes are moist, this love for October; where spirits rise, as singing love, this place in self that soul.