Through
rivers this flow, as standing eye to brow, downstream our orchard; as polite
souls, at hunger for passion, at seasons for love; this feral appetite, our
insatiable loins, while captured at an impasse; to anchor sensations, chosen
for rising, outspoken our belly of beasts. We trek hemispheres, aloft synaptic
gaps, tiptoeing with ghosts; to have our dreams, stippled in apricots,
crocheted in beating hearts: that inner symphony; that outer theatre; our
verses kissing immortality—to arise as phantoms, our silent rooms, as furniture
slips for sliding—as songs invert, where pigeons bear witness, leering upon
windowpanes; but why for deaths, this chief of detriments, at wings agaze by
cherubs; where puppets are puppeteers, tugging at tunic threads, building
shadows in ivory grays; to have such love, peppered in chaos, our disorder a
rabid fantasy. We’re choice to live, an orchestra to a soul, coming to hearts
at such distance; to become fire, seething at fusions, alert as caution
flees—this blueberry soil, our raspberry leaves, those oranges so sweet such
nectar; to fall by sword, dangling midair, to arise a phoenix that rush. It had
to live us, this buried breathing, at cadence this erratic missive—as loving
forever, frantic for flame, to pass by chance that instant touch; as souls
cherish, this want of tears, while brains dance to prose; for more that life,
those loquat eyes, as souls shiver sensations. We had to live, our pace as
snails, to rev by arts this grieving engine; at cliffs for sails, to leap through
arms, as two descend as parachutes; to awaken from dreams, screaming at chaos,
tossing pillows at mirrors; for love has drifted, this powerful soul, at aches
this vision by nights; to seek for closure, as finding pandemonium, or rather a
pantomime illustrating poetic justice: this beige world; that middle stage;
this urge for glory pulling us nigh; but days are losing, while evening is
tithing, to come to pains this recession.
It churns a soul, as begging for personhood, to realize we never left.
It was more a season, where anger was worry, as tears broke through as
metaphor; this deep silence, as filled with awe, to imagine this lonely
shadow—where hell is rich, as casting contracts, if but to possess this mythic
gem; as never he could, this sick insanity, this hassled fire.
