This
mental latchet, unloosed by love, as our wilderness cries: this Lamb as
suffrage; this pouch as forests; our pockets harassed by lint; as calling
Elias, this message of Elisha, racing as falling to arise—this vessel in space,
as crooked as pastimes, revved as fires that inner Rabbi; while kneeling in
agonies, this woman as sources, to symbolize this fig tree. It severed deeply,
this vat of drama, this firkin of turmoil; as so afraid, to feel this life,
while roaming this lonely island. Our feast has come; our deepest celebration,
at wills to conjure our souls: this
furious lever; this Passover blood; our governor preaching by plights of
widows; to remember that reign—those years at anguish—our sweetness as real as
almonds—to conjure as practiced, this pragmatic mischief, slanted by
metaphysics—this meta-mind, that
vacant zeal, this Born Again as
everlasting; to return to love, that morning celebration, prior to waking eyes;
to build our days, as crazed as wolves, as nauseated as pregnancy; this outer nothingness, as smelt ontology—our
habits to fettle our outlooks; this devious span, this mental interior, this
castle wrapt in spirits; as chasing chains, these fragile links, by which, each
box proves a gate; to enter his doors, while flushed in ritual, this dancing as
music’s-tribal; this molten spirit, as liquefied promises—this woman a sudden
explosion; to know for powers, as charmed to oblige, awaiting that moment of
converse; as laics live, this passion of Psalms—our palms bleeding our
priesthood; to ask permission—of something so natural, as becoming a maverick:
this sullen song, facing excommunication,
as to obey God instead of man; this mystic lily, as pleading decisions—this
Victorian Justice. Forever is near, those elastic pledges, revved as near
ecstasy—soaring through tribulations, at peace for seconds, where minds conjure
up insanities; this inner fullness, that cask of vows, as racing towards this
finished product; but never it came, as doors would open, sliding into Daniel’s
Visions—this faraway dream, this outer indigo, our meadows as speaking through
branches; this silent hymn, that inner tribunal, our podiums fraught with
skies. It could be gentle, instead of wickedness, as something so subtle by
scars; this fabulous travesty; as more this training, alive come anguish this
inner retreat; but what of love, as singing that melody, forbidden to sweaty palms;
this cryptic soul, as living in secrets, at woes to forbid this flight; as
seeing ghosts, to reckon eternity, that season of feeling as a daughter; this
sweet essence, to hold our hands, crossing as staring at green lights.
