By
virtue this love, as squiggly as time, as barbaric as fates; to cringe at
mercy, in need of patience, dying for glories. I wrote a mirror, a bit too
coldly, as condemning this image: I held a palm, a bit too boldly, as redeeming
sorrows; to have adventure, this rising as falling, contorted by silence; these
days of mischief, this sad piano, as fingers tear into souls. I’m watching
life, pondering Pegasus, with needs to know of what’s being pondered; this
metaphysic, soaring through dimensions, as coldly as warmly that balance; as
near lethargic, those porcelain evils, that glass antique; to love a smile, to
see its being, while carrying a bit
of misery; that casual defense, this fevered nonchalance—that person protecting
chaos; this wild acclaim, as feeling nervous, at needs to overthrow a phantom.
It cuts as passion, this inner chariot, flaming through spheres; to love such
hands, as delicate as vases, as strong as compassion; to ache at turns, dying
at violins—this cosmic orchestra: that flailing heartbeat; that hidden rain;
that flogging unto inhibitions; to tame our souls, craving more madness, a
meerkat at search for love. It should be life, while athirst that dream, at
appetites that critical dimension—as learning to sing, where dancing is
love—this saxophone as a mental image; to cry by winds, caressing deer-eyes, a
leopard near silence. I’ve adored love, at woes to define essence, at tears to
ignore love; this marvelous challenge—this superb wisdom, this needs to fathom
nuances; as living again, this new found love, for love that has always been
love; to rebirth a soul, as driven through deserts, to find this watered mirage.
I saw a face, this inner kingdom, where blossoms became kisses; wherewith, were
deaths, this dying to live—those rites of passage; to couple an angel, to
harpoon a wound, such affectionate rhinos. I’m keen this power, this outer
effusion, this inner cabinet—to rest so gently, this cage by arts, to have
incarcerated self; to touch such love, as bonded through tragedies, to have
fueled a mental engine: this terrible kitsch, as falling afar—this inner chase;
where birds would sing, peering at underground crickets—avoiding this nest of
prey; as deep this nature, this intrusion of souls, where passions flicker upon
firebrand.
