You
couldn’t color me, this floating wave, as imaged by daughters: You couldn’t
kill, this colored culture, as so near to love me. It becomes amazing, this
runaway slave, tired of sitting still; while born to parody, or cave’s
adventures, partially at mother’s war; to blame a soul, as never to credits,
this man afloat, Let it be! I turned
a corner, this naked woman, seated beneath gravel. I moved a stone; she
disappeared; I saw an image. We float this way, lashed by society, to render
this core resistance; as flying boldly, as cold as glaciers—that warm
compassion. I died as living, this living as dying, to meet admiration: this
storm of times; this Cajun spirit; somewhere as immortal; where doves cry, this
purple song, alive this itch for more; that inner arc, as vibrant as
heartbeats—this woman to reappear. It couldn’t be mother, writhing in gravel,
where tires tread humans; that feverish soul, as febrile for wars, repenting
for forgiveness. I’d grant it in passing, a man at loses, to fathom this welkin
sin: that drifting touch, that Danish rush, this inverted chaos; as being mine,
this song of woes, as capitalized in grandeur; to live it warmly, where falcons
settle, as one a phoenix of dreams; this sphinxly guile, to induce a soldier,
as mother trekked his psyche. Our mental
winters, asearch for cymbals, agaze at souls to live—that ark of dreams,
severed by raging seas, as extracted from father’s mirrors: this Turkish drum,
this Roman chant—our excursion through Persian prose; to find with love, this
needs to sing, as more to encourage triumphs; where daughters wail, this
crucial tenet, at peace to succeed by graces.
I loved an eagle, this woman through graves, as one cultured through
ethics—where deers are eyes, as lemurs are wits, where today was a sullen
visage; to come to pleasures, this style as natural, to form through psychs an
inner image; as mother dies, to live by sinews, despite this face of
heaven. I’m more a spirit, afloat this
ghostly realm, a bit frantic that journey; where father sings, as one imbued,
as to return a gentle lad. It should be
gentle, at what expense, where resistance forms fires—to stream again, alive
again, where songs promote effusions.
