I
know us more, those similarities, this curse of prophets; as rearranged,
seething with angers, conditioned by reason;
such carnal woes, morphed as divine powers, lurching forward at chaos;
while aiding souls, this strength a burden, but far too rewarding: if but our
souls, mended in one breath, our lives would deteriorate. I know us more, as
seeping through knowledge, while creating circumstance: this grave invention,
dying with time, while living with pressures. I admire wit, this light for
children, this style of investigation; to see us testing, whereat, are flames, while
to remain cold observation; as not to offend, but more those boundaries,
shifting deep dialogues; of course, with self, this glory about thoughts, but a
fraction our inner person. I know us
less, as abandoned to ideals, whereto, this furious injunction (order); as more
to patience, seething with fury, this torture as loving an enemy; where hearts
are sore, that exchange of pains, as cryptic as inner violence. I know us less,
to have mated for fun, refusing our exits; this miracle distance, while
absorbing spirit, flaming as falling to gallop—this trenchant wrath, as meaning
nothing—aside for pure insanity! I know us less, that immortal shame, as eyes
would suffer to see each other. I know
us more, peering at parallels, while studying mother: that engine revving; that
cross as slanted; that liquid inquiry: to pretend in justice, as to appeal a
grown woman, while at heart, I was mourning! I know us more, as mystic grains,
whereat, to grow, this mosaic storm—where tears are fires, pouring into
madness—this blurry of time as mortal. I know us more, as perfect sorrow, at
trails, those shifting images. I know us
less, as imperfect assholes—our fingers pointing to sadness; as jeering pain,
to applaud treason, while screaming, “Never I”: this page of horrors; that
house of secrets; wherefore, this sense of inadequacy; as condemning self, by
feigning perfect, as humanness engulfs our natures; to act for God, this vest
of hypocrisies, while hiding a closet filled with demons. I know us less, as
more I perish, to see this ironic design; where squirrels are watching, that
armoire of panic, as clothing fails to conceal misery: this charm by vines, if
mobile that wisdom, as to aid a village of orphans; for this is law, while
claiming perfection, our imperfections leak into our open courts. I know us more, this favorite soul, as seeing
so little in time. I speak of self, as to image this space, while communing
through heartbeats: that crazed armor, as reaching Christ, to fall by chance
into visions; where patience wanes, as one for wars, to realize this deep
compassion. I know us more, as seeking for rightness, at tales, a perfect
abrasion—as even to fail, galloping immortality,
a glint too frozen to feel; as more that moment, to silence in tears, while
repenting those lights. I know us more!
