Sky Swan

Hi Love—as shadowed in webs, those shards piercing affections.  (I know a name, as fraught in energies, to course your eyes: that fabulous magic; that measure of wits; those tender contagions; where pain is sung, as joys are pardoned, while doves alight your heart—to soar through tunnels, to cause by hearts, this lambent flame—where mystics roam, while diamonds speak, this African language).  We scribble in blankness; we doodle in deepness; we draw futures distorted by wishes; as living forever, too young to perish, as to embrace a sudden shock; where love is distant, as not quite there, infused by yearning hopes: our captivated minds, while tender that symphony, where mothers pause as to hide a tear; to watch us grow, as becoming aloof—this type of sternness.  (I heard a tear, somewhere that shadow, as to awaken in sweat: I saw a hawk, as to pass a letter—I wonder of reception).  It must exist, this thing of trials, as subjected to minds; where pain is rich, a bit more so than love, as life is dependent upon feelings: this feel good nation; where donkeys scold prophets; while fuses linger in midair.  I thought for cadence, this skyward chant, as to rend self apart: this terrible feeling, as fraught with fires, this need to impart a flame; as casual souls, striking through spheres, a bit too partial to kindness; to have that art, embedded in stealth, as to assume perfection; but this is life, sifting out goodness, while confronted by wolves; but more to love, to season a thought, while infusing our Ghost: this steady return, leering at mystics, as to comb a series of tomes; where pages sprout, as wings to form, while attached to membranes.  (I love our swan, as captured by rains, where passions have gone astray; but this is love, as to please take heed, prior to reproducing).  We adore goodness, as to shift through badness, where thinness takes flight; for it never was—this thing of eternity, as two rented a space: that nonchalance; those cordial pains; that need to ignore inconsistencies; but more to love, as flowers hide, awaiting to blossom in due season: this wisdom of stars, carved in branches, as to whittle a masterpiece.  (I want for life, this song of souls, to see this thing called adventure; where pigeons swarm, laughing at wildcats, climbing by root that apex).  It could be gentle, as for adults, as our young display wisdom; wherewith, are volts, surging into souls, where one stands affected: that mauve ruby; that taupe gem; our minds at once connected; to measure distance, as fire to flames, a bit too rich those sighs.  I know your name, this molten sacrifice, as joined to medieval times; to seek further, as to course through history, to find a wealth of imageries: that calm mystic; that patient daughter; those travesties induced by spontaneous sparks; to know for casual, as not for time, where adults speed through intensities; (but more to silver eyes and loquat ears and piano voices that place in hearts as violins); to love eternal, this hard-won chase, warring as to sculpture an opus: this outer orchestra; that inner guitar; that space in ballet as swans; where arts are raw, this political silence, as to have witnessed chaos; as more unsaid, this mental legacy, while imbuing our centerpiece.