We need
confusion, this interior symbol, to need for safety—to run from self, this kef
of dreams, screaming at déjàvu. I’ve felt this feeling, as nearly crooked, this
slanted appeal; as skyfall art, or skyglass windows, peering at skybone pains;
this drill as fury, to love but couldn’t, this tragic passage; to run to self,
but stumbling signs, as crazed as subtleties. I’m alarmed at fears, to see it
as he saw it—leaping through skybeams; as there was God, where ninjas frolic,
and gurus paint gardens. I felt mystic, charming angels, as sudden for sun;
this long abuse, as traveling church, at hush to fathom conventions. It must be
life—ubiquitous scars, to meet our daughters. I craved a symbol, as to lie
those thoughts, as never he felt it; this inner creation, a wagon of signs, as
serious as sorrows; where there to stand, this sunshine woman, to find for self
at love; this thing that wasn’t, became what is, to die a tragic kiss. I float
by, to see those mirrors, a pistol to an image; as graphic life, shaded at shadows,
gnawing at lightness—an inner darkness, this lavish bar, to wrap his brain. Dear
mother, as looking at us, to scream that hatred—as left he died, to meet a
villain, as too, another death;—I saw for christic, this mystic illusion, as to
open our caves—this craving a dream, an artful baptism, a lion to a kind
gesture. I’m more to life, fleeing delusions, in need of being addled; as more
an artist, to arise those skies, seeping into gravel—that rising rose, soil to
seas, freezing by arts that life. It should be gentle, but what that ache—as
captured through dragons; as knowing scars, a savage at sorrows, a soldier at
struggles; to claim love, too far gone, those years at sins; to measure by
distance, that sudden volt, to admire powers. We needed death, so death arose,
a gift as a tragedy;—depending his nights, as cuffed at battles, agaze those
feared eyes; as force would travel, alighting his spirit—our souls adrift.
