Promises by Images

It had us by joys, this devilish fuse, afraid by chance that love; to run through valleys, or shiver through forests, those possums rifting mute bodies; to die again, as born living, this sin by virtue that art; while torn asunder, those sapphire cannons, screaming our souls of daughters; where pagans cry, alive by dungeons, to find it bliss that suffering; where mother wintered—that cold response, pleading for mercy.  I’m more a child, agaze by adults, hearing that languish so profane; at tears to love, this thing by cultures, to ride that vicious raft.  We soar afire, bathed-volcanic-ash, this phoenix your doorstep—as craving passion, where love would die, prior that life it never had; to tender by bone, at hearts those cymbals, amused this trombone-affection; where damsels dwell, fraught by aches—that kindness, infused by terror those symbols.  I loved a star, by grace that distance, to realize we never saw self: that outer lava, as inner sulfur, while confused by love.  It had to live, this virtue by eyes, to see that figure—and die our river; that midnight blue, ingested by life, as gnawed upon and spat out: this crawling angst—your hand by scars, those years at mercy a yanking spark; to push millennia, in mere a second, courted by jaded gestures: this harsh inflection, those dark meadows, that conversation with owls; as felt by horns, those intricate rites, at drums that mischief soul.  We could to live, that airborne kiss, floating as space that laughter; as maniacal hearts, cleaving variety, at woes those eyes we love; to hold for secrets, this engine by flame, aloft this mystic balloon; where death is glory, as life is mundane, to find by chance that medium; wherewith, are vices, as, too, guilty pleasures, to have at heart a tender stranger; as affected dearly, to rupture by instincts, that place in time as aloof.  I knew for flight, as to return to self—those months musing fire; to aflame by rites, this cryptic temper, at parts too fragmented; that mental candle, to flicker your mind, as to trespass souls; to love as hectic, this lambent fuse, akin to no land as friction; whereat, are skeletons, this body of science, muffled by kindness; to find forever, in mere a thought, to have loved our curse.