Die At Wings

Is it sculpted, our energized hearts—knees to dirt flailing mud; this cryptic maze, even grandparents, losing so much; this touch of cadence, this christic outlook, that portal in souls our lights; to come to deaths, staring at daughters, wailing this disjunct; as nearing closer, as so far away, while deepened in mire. It could be gentle, but years are adverse—these hankies inducing prayers; this deep chasm, this time of illusions, that place at heart’s realities; to see a face, this pale queen, at tears for repercussions; as floored his life, as winning greatly, this sin by chance his deaths. It could be life, this fever to compose, gazing at violins; to have guitars, screaming of values, this man a segment of his father: this rich scar, as filled with treacheries, while accused of treasons. I love a swan, by sheer this measure, as opposed to rich encounters; to send a spirit, this volt through nights, while tugging at souls. I knew a mother, at love but children, to have voiced discontents; but chase I did, this thing of bodhis, swerving through guttered storms; this rich mire, this shredding of tunics, our souls enraptured dearly; to have that gaze, this nameless love, as afforded three more delusions. I’ve cried this life, feeling through tentacles, but a turtle through cities; this inner wave, as grave as ambitions, to have come so far—with little that praise, as accused of deaths, where accomplishments are mere mistakes. It should be love, as to have created a seed, where mothers are revealing treason; but more to cultures, stressing as poets, at heart a walking memoir. I saw a face, this glorious Sophia, to have treble a heart pattern: that centered gaze; those marble eyes; that tendency towards something abstract; or more to knowledge, this faceless face, as appearing in travels; to call our names, while fires’ amuck, this cadence as rich as intimacies; to enter life, shooting through scars, at bars to confess wrongness; but this is love, as love is dying, where unsaid souls reach for something new. It comes to pass, this chasm of souls, while preaching composure to a mirror. I love this love, as potent as parents, where unsaid specialized in sacrifice: this electric son; this furious daughter; as both court an inner paradise; to shoot through dreams, while catching visions, as born to exceed doubts. Oh for passions, our mortal minds, driven by immortality—to catch a gaze, at something beyond thoughts, while to return a vessel of secrets; that three year voyage, confirmed by mere studies, to embark upon this unseen voyage—while sights were pure, this rich cadence, to die at wings.