Crossing Races

We see for differences, by nature this curse, adrift so far apart; to lust for color, or to lust for Europe, at two those pores; to utter a epithet, or feel detached, warring in Mississippi: that inner courage; that African high; those rotten eggs. It should be love, as imbued with kindness, as tears those ideals; to see a human, instead of cultures, where art becomes tragic; this ink by blood, this bone by grizzle, that tare leaking into passions; as so naïve, where ignorance rules, that capital of madness. We wrecked pains; spoke as friends; to die as warriors: that tender touch; those hips and thighs; that kiss near ears; while hell grew, this distant closeness, to die those screams. I thought Pakistan, this place of marriage, as more devastation—to bleed diamonds, this sky-mine, a field of land-souls; as crying harshly, a chest heaving, screaming, He’s a heathen; where pictures ruined—this perfect image, her eyes buzzing; this life of sin, grinning embarrassments, as living in closets: that reputation; that inner deacon; those bloody lines; as courted to live, a soul broken, this man a child inside—to rupture a season, on mere a gesture, as reminded of cultures; that outer cure, this place to blame, this disguised demon. I heard from self, sitting sickly, our coverage that sinless family; to call for dung, to remind of love, this painful disjunct. It could be us, abused by happiness, or more this life—that shattered home, those parts to sea, that wind to shift; as cold and ruined, while dead and breathing, rubbing a palm as sorrowed. I saw emotions, unable to die, at sudden that burst of rivers; this brook of catharses, that valley of poisons, those hours at drifting; to remember cultures, as knowing truths—that familiar feeling; to die that name, to see as vivid, those colors wrapped in foreign arms; where time bleeds, to court souls, lost at inner meadows: that Romanian rite; those Jewish tenants; that word by grace this feature; to see Forever, with wealth to live, as returning gone.  I blink to ponder, gazing at arrows, flushed those rifting words; for it should be love, if so to die, as opposed to ruins; where neither suffers—but a second in time, as seeking closer.