The Rose Didn’t Blossom

It feels heavy, that race of storms, so enchanted by thoughts; to monitor feelings, as chased by logic, this reason for dying. I loved an image, with little for substance, this grave invention; to have that trauma, this pushing of principles, as alert to what could be; this powerful glove, as seen for evidence, this casual nonchalance; where hells are vivid, this turn of woes, as clashing with morals. I know our hearts, bent on ethics, cleaving to our nucleus; to stand a distance, to listen to wind-chimes, while cleaving to adventures; those ways of converse, pacing living-room flooring, scratching at an unplaced pimple; to rev a future, this subtle enchant, while focused on preserving home. It had to come, this way with love, as if our hearts are affected; this magical lamp, placed in infinity, as missing this what of ifs. I heard a song, this melic rage, as to have drifted in time; that unit of passions, where loft was days, this inner séance. I’ve crawled eternity, caressing curtains, pleading each pleat; that born hurt, fleeing for flying, while God stood in stillness; this night of seaweed, this indelible attraction, while loving this seated woman; to break with times, as cleaving to joys, this place our art as fires. I remember disdain, this growth for souls, to reckon that grieving advancement; where opposites break currents, while familiarity bleeds, as given that something sacred. It had to live life, this misguided passion, where hell broke for courses; this dead but alive, that disenchant, while staring into color: this vacant lot, that soothing ache, to find comfort in something forbidden. We long this nocturne, stationed in gravity, this piece by marks a misprint; where death would grow, as life would fade, while sudden this parade of passions; as overwhelming, where pain would loom, this favor I need; as grieved in angst, that iron collar, as tears for our fortress. I had to retreat, if merely for mercy, to grant it to self: this lively form; that grave invention; that moment it came to fruition; while arts would pass, as time would venture, as pardoned for a major mishap. It comes to terms, this relic of scars, that history of mistreats; this fervid feeling, as killing his soul, where converse is a wish; so ore to dying, as living in rites, while love is major this misprint.