Immortal Swans

It could be hearts: It could be dreams: It could be you; to sing alive, to die alive, to scream out mercy; this deep enchantment, as more his daughter, those terrified ways; as born to dregs, alive at dregs, to find these dregs; where songs arise, to outlive time, this grime to souls as lights. I see an angel, this need for love, a bit reclusive; this fulgent dream, as leasing trauma, that reaching sign; where arts splay, this play of life, those sights as dark; as love blooms, to permeate—this inner cave: as soul-minds; or sky-brains; this extracted mind-cave—as smelted spirits, afloat through gravel, this misery of lovers; to see that face, so tiny that soul, a myriad of sins. I heard sobriety, this inner chase, confronted with thoughts; to ride this wave, those ends of time, a-trek that horizon; where mother lives, as streaming through waves, this art we pursue: if days are gentle, and psychs are liquid, and crevices bleed—this immortal grind, to shine by love, to die by gurus; this infinite mystic, as born to dregs, as living that culture; whereto, your name, this small legend, striking through kingdoms; that inner professor, that gravid star, those trips to France; indeed, your mind, as born to live, a casualty of no man. I know this chi: I know this pain: I know your royalty; as plural signs, or rapid symbols, adrift an aria; where fathers chime, this inner gavel, at wants to extinguish pains. I’m more a soul, attempting greatness, to see those eyes—as to feel that arc, while to roam—this inner castle. We die this way, to live this way, splayed as young souls: it could be gentle, if not for humans, or rather, human thoughts; but more to thinking, that grueling levity, that restrictive art. I see a daughter, this loud fuse, stressed through potentials: as digging literature, extracting wisdom, while applying magic: if but to live, to share those pies, to bake those cakes; that chocolate frosting, those rainbow sprinkles, that slice to mother; or more that soul, that tiny expression, as one a soul-wind. I speak of sisters, or maybe brothers, or maybe to friends; to share infinity, or stress abilities, while streaming through channels. I’m at this wave, musing upon tigers, those embedded stripes—leaping to cheetahs, as changing spots, while immortal to dregs. We must return, to give that silence, while adrift a generation; where drums thump, and cymbals clang, where violins are discarded; this dream of souls, chasing guitars, afloat through Canada. It turns this way, as infused with languages, this Spanish love—as more to graces, our fantastic voyage, abed, stumbling through Spain; to live this life, as an academic, flying by aches this immortal wave. It should be love, as born to succeed, wrestling with ideals; but more to love, as singing forever, despite this inner sentence. I love a swan, stressed over legacies, or more, those future disciplines; to vanish a curse, at verses to exhale, while to carry this anchor; for this is art, this message screaming, this daughter musing: that mental piano, that floating trumpet, that loudness of souls; to interconnect, this flow of knowledge, to stumble this esoteric: as more a dream, to peer at mother, or shake grandma. It comes this way, those traveling years, that flight to Tibet: if but this aim, curved this life, a bit for experience: it has substance; it has conviction; it lives forever. Oh for love, as drifting through bulbs, that passion for Asia; or more this heart, beating to rhythms, evolved by fires; where fathers gather, to chat a fury, while mothers mold spells. I knew a name, to garner a soul, where love brewed a stew. It should be myth, this inner cry, but more to eternity; this immortal swan, that outer symphony, sprinkled through personality; indeed, a legend, as fueled through passion, streaming this orchestra; where pains are science, as science is love, afloat this flame; so more that inrush, and more that fire, and more those brains; in truth, those waters, as born testaments, reaching for ether: this famous expansion, this inner theosophy, that immortal Tao—as more for Zen, while surging as yogis, to morph into an individual.