I
was perfect for imperfection, striving to show worth. I died so young, as to
live again, proud of my accomplishments; this torturous maze, ablaze a soul,
fretted midair this illusion; to capture forever, this love of swans, this
ability to express feelings. I want this thing, this deep intimacy, revving
through sundry souls; that deep anitya, those
profound epiphanies—that color speaking to satori;
this face of daughters, qualm us for tears, as to expect a permanent
outcome; but this is you, even your tenants, speaking to impermanence; so why
so long, over something that dies, where forever is thrust sensations; this
inner turpitude, as to escape those mountains, this product of forty years;
where life was heinous, this dungeon of pits, as ours is a bit of disdain; to
have that second, as bliss would die, to infuse through caves this inner yowling.
I’m
deep your thoughts, to wander through whys,
if but to claim this outer tyro; that cell of persons, crying for dying, as
to want this part of that self; this wretched man, while filled with joys, to
omit each sensation; where to die by love, our hands embraced, to efface years
of practice; indeed, it lives, this tinge of forgiveness, to wonder as to
wander, this vest of flowers, this inner mayfly, this space of pirates; to see
your face, broken in segments, that addict’s smile.
We
return to swans, but never verbose,
cringing
this lot of souls; where dharma
breeds,
a wealth of daughters, akin to
yogic
magic; for more to small boats, as
surging
large tiers, as partial to thunderbolts;
this
face of millions, as prone to perish, if
not
for cautions; this brave soul, searching
as
for finding, this urge to soar golden clouds;
where
mothers mourn, as feeling lost, while
daughters
conquer inner workings. We walk
though
middles, this mention of four truths,
cursed
but found adrift; that inner smile, this
bodhisattva, our daughter a
locomotive; so
think
as giants, pushing perfection, this thing
with
errors; but more to change, dying that lot,
as
molded into a vehicle of light.
I
saw a cygnet, tripping through space, as tipsy as sobriety; that new invention,
to monitor our souls, while hell invades our inwards; to enter four huts, bent
with commas, to evade a series of wrongs; this place of fools, this mental
segue, to enter a world of passions; where smiles count, as more a ruse, but
still so gentle; this soothing calm, as meant for years, where hells broke insanity. I loved a friend, to end a bond, as never for friends; this inner
challenge, to see this mirror, while flipping through Isaiah; this mortal man,
effused by dreads, pouring into our universe; this pillar of Christ, this walk
of stones, this diligent psych; as speaking more, to suggest for less, this
miracle mind. We love to die, or die to love, this space broken in shadows; to
hope for fires, this fuse of days—our midnight awakenings; where borne afoul,
this thing that came, while doting over a cygnet; this furious soul, fraught
with angers, but too kind to affront a child.
