I’d adore you, partly at woes, as flushed
that sorrow your eyes; to cry this soul, our fingers as torches, to touch a
heart by infusion. I used to sin, as now by errors, while seeking beauty; that
furious dream, that fabulous arch, those toes painted in luxuries; to see
Yahweh, in compassion’s tears, at once a cardboard to bales. We die eternal, as
loving trespass, to forgive, as forgiveness is given; to have those thoughts,
persuaded by sentiments, at once, this attic of phantoms. I’d adore you,
gripped in essence, this mind as delirious; to proffer a gift, by sheer a
gesture, to perish in this bosom. I thought to Malachi, as losing it all, for
sin unquenched; as purgatorial, as opposed to reprobate, to love your laughter;
this brave passion, as crashing with plights, to sense a subtle sorrow; as
serious a soul, as sober a sentence, as feeling for warmth—this call of years,
ready through bars, to sense a section of freedom; as therapeutic, or
controversial, this ride through another’s eyes: that grin by virtue; that
stance as shifting; that slight slant as churning one’s soul; to lose so much,
to become this ghost, as fevered through times as bashful. I wrote Jeremiah, to
ask of hearts, to respond to self this luxury; or more to woes, if merely
untamed, as wild as a flock of coyotes. It takes for gall, to approach that
altar, while feet are filthy; but all for sameness, to start that location,
while pouring into fuses: this inner dimension, as an outer reality, to
remember your precious dimples. I lost it thrice, as infused fully, to ask for
help; this stubborn man, at once to jealousies, as now to triumphs: these daily
ruses, as sheer insanities, spaces through omens this grime; to remember
innocence, as refined dearly, as musing but this adventure; (as minds are
lethal; that charge of waves; to drift by worlds this fiction); while days
churn, as nights writhe, to see for perfect that fantasy. I’d adore you, where
crime is love, as this passion of errors; to catch a glimpse, while heated for
pains, this grudge our dearest blessing; to die a beat, while drums are tribal,
this place in souls a bit primal. I’ve gone that place, while cars were
chasing, at tension to see his daughter’s eyes; this tragic essence, to repent
for breath, as one streaming through Job: this simple wisdom, to grant but
souls, this terror to exist. It can’t be real, our eyes to water, while judges
cringe our testimonies; but this is life, our terse goodbyes, singing as
falling a bit crooked.
