Such
radiant features, as immaculate claws, floating is space those eyes; to glisten
as presence, alert to wisdom, tugging while gazing our souls. Where thoughts
would flourish, time’s embarrassments, for sights those wants those possessions; as affected gently, our hearts as magnets,
to rub scalps nearly psychotic; to banish sipping, cleaving to mercies, abased
towards humility. I saw perfection, this daisy that soul, changed as torments—those
blizzards of woes, reaching for gripping—a palm filled with hopes. I flitted to
beauty, this actress of minds, seized by something immortal; this disturbed chimney, peeling at soot, as white as
ivory diamonds: (Our wills our ways—this chase as mythic, to ask but
flesh, this numbing feeling). We assert forever,
this temporary pash, scudding as running from eyes: that deceptive contour,
as if unaffected—the effects of something internal: that immortal cry, sought
such irritation, as clawing at perfumes: this amazed grin, to have mustard
courage, as to utter a fatal flaw—our vests as touching, those immortal
violets, pinned by petals. I adjure you, this frantic composure, oh by your
God: this celebration, as calming by letters, to become this feature; to
examine skin, while enthralled that sight, challenged to resist a memory at
wars: that grin as tinted; those pearly eyes; that contour that wants forsaken. I’m still with love,
peeking at seconds, as to retreat into self; that fabulous outcry, seasoned
with melancholy, as filled that joy your heart.
I retreat to fancy, at pulls this oxygen, reaching though pausing for
petro; to see those arms, such glamorous springs, as purposed for
perfection—that shift in tones, our drums at wires, every beat thumping through
parrots—as sought to sing, at refuge from love, as seated in something
cozy—that art’s guitar, those cymbals by waves, that sea seated at a furnace—as
ships sail, those fatal romances, to have died a songbird. I heard a voice, to
portrait an image, reading by fingertips; this depth our souls, a bit too
squirrely, as too, a bit for fires: that electric arc, as sought to sun, at
seconds this immortal high; to see adventure, in something foreign, as to never
embrace our pulse.
