Let
it be gentle, this wailing delusion—flowers up-side-down our skies: petals
mid-waves; caves afloat Olympus; our mothers sipping ginger. Let it be fire,
this aching illusion, hearted by red vipers: this space in dreams—our casual
screams—this purpose as features to Love; this calling miracle, as sketched
invisibility, to feel by nature such distance. Let it be free, as running
wildly—this naïve dream, sailing—those high seas, that waterless ocean, this
place in minds as karnac; while not as vicious, but more as reason, this art as
mischief ink; to paint us beige, afloat those in-betweens, as gauged a tornado;
but let it be gentle, this teething chaos, as kneading perfection; where love
is void, as but a casual glance, while earth is bearing witness: this glint by
skies; those intrepid emotions; that wretched betrayal; whereto, are hearts, as
yearning for beats, to have chosen but one love: our woes to bed; our arms to
fires; our visions stippled with promises; but let it be kind, as firm
compassion, while pointing at Quixote—this fabulous dreamer, while alive those
tugs, as feeling in diamonds—that sluggish art, wherewith, that praise of
beauty, accustomed to dying those graces. It becomes magic, where others
trespass, at wants that position of gods; as given rarely, to drift upon a
leaf—our linchpins embedded with names; to give us space, where thoughts are
guzzled, while others secern as playing doctor. It couldn’t be gentle, this art
by force, as claimed this love; where patience dies, while moons mourn, as
painted to function; or build from woodblocks, this panting for a heart, where
one is sprouting through affection: that living dream, too pure to be cautious,
too timid to be bold; but it lives as fire, where eyes become judges, as if
detached from life: this grand occurrence; to witness such treachery; where
never this soul but ever that soul; this amazing music, showered emotions,
treading so far away; where love is gentle, at peace to stay-away, as realizing
devastation: that inner halcyon; those mauve goodbyes; that place in conscious
at peace.
There’s
this place, where poetry lives, at wars with reality; or more at culture, this
thin barrier, while infused by anxieties; as treated illusions, rich with
tortures, composed of particles; as wanting life, this spectrum of thoughts,
while eerie concerning affections; to drift afar, while reeled by nearness,
this space of dementias. Its gentle travesties, or patent psychoses, as one to
mention our embarrassments: this inner image, while disappointed, for a
pedestal adrift our skies; as pebbles to glass, that frontal-windshield, where
prose begins to evaluate—those slanted feelings, as more to sulfur—this boiling
sensation; while seated low, to imagine this dream—to imagine delusion; as
righted rarely, so more to beauty, while pleading mercy; at sun to life, this
torn performance, weighing this misery of souls; as much he could, while losing
feelings, painted analyses: this rendered loss; this space in minds; that anger
to feel exploited; for colors scream, as envies wail, while tugged a gentle
reed; where never our passions, this immortal pain, as realizing prerogatives:
those rippled ponds; that burgundy duck; this bag of popcorn, stale; while
fussing through winds, a thought to land, this earth as coursing through
angers: our vile intensions, this culture of men, as filed in memories this
horrible alpha.
