This
faceless, amorphous, erratic love—while capricious, sporadic, infectious
turmoil—as love embedded, in crystal almonds, to see for cultures this chasm;
as wants for freedom, to evade our histories, a bit too numb to cultures; while
senseless at wars, to confess attraction, writhing as infant warriors: to
coalesce, this churn of poetry—this epitome of silence.
We
read filaments, threaded to bee hives, at courage, to face our monsters; this
childish love, as flirting with visions, aloof that touch as bodies collided. I
knew for terror, those dispositions, and even those myths; as fires and pyres
and flutes and whistles formed this orchestra; this crime to love, this want
for flesh, that tour that told of mutuality; this seasoned lassitude, as filled
with fatigue, for thoughts betrayed body language; to die that feeling, to
crave opportunity, as hassled that terrifying love.
We
suffused love, this inner effusion, while souls roamed temple halls; to meet
this virgin, while probing secrets, this vestige of something familiar; those
soaring frustrations, at wars to attraction, while seething with discontent; to
form insanities, that inner paradox, as locked in webs; this zenith of love, as
mutual enemies, where neither courted tomorrow; as more would come, this heated
tension, this bold disdain.
I
saw aesthetics—this casual perusal, musing upon future disappointments; to want
for nothing, aside for distance, aloof this chasm of cultures; to see for
beauties, those lights of etiquette, where hearts never would thump.
Artifice:
this
vicious deception, as came by graces, to form in heart this mission; as roaming
deserts, those years at cultures, peering at this bias queen. We chatted in
visions, pitched popcorn to geese, and ran through meadows as invisible beings; this incredible image, as still
that journey, while terrorized through wave-sores: this curse of love, as more
that blessing, as to mingle for centuries; this spiritual land, as trekking
through ponds, alive that second of confirmation;
to
sing a song, this private allotment, while fueled by aesthetics.
I’m
at fey with essence, this effective
soul, spearing into justice; those pregnant morals, that bold ethic, that time in silence those tears;
as more this fire, raging through brains, at course, this ecstatic hydrant; to
love as engines, racing through beaches, at tears, this seated exploration.
