We’re
abstract blue, as turquoise red—our dreams at baptism; to heat a furnace,
cultured but savage, abased concerning trials; to meet again, or die again, our
reign scraping God. I lost brains, trekking hemispheres, unlatched dearly—to
love this riddle, where thoughts were murals—that inner concentration; as more to
flights, adrift by scars, leering at mahogany bars: this curious fever, those
cryptic thighs, as one bilks for wombs; that old confession, as musical chairs,
or familiar strangers; to sale a soul, but courting fires, as one forever to
markets. I’ve loved a flame, a facet but choking—ablaze by curse this force;
where mothers cringe, while daughters flutter, our reasons a bit to
mysteries—as churning softly, a soul untaught, while creeping through
caves—this crevice of spirits, as remote in time—our ancestors dancing. We saw it
ugly, this disguise of souls, while wrestling our climax; to die this measure,
where hell grieves—as seething pressures a bit morbid; as wanting more, where
death sought kindness, whereto, such injustice; this concrete gem, as abstract rain,
a bit concerned with flame. (I’m deep a shelter, kneading woes, kneeling for
knocking—to find for grace, this woman by chance, as a bit skeptical—to dance
that way, that inner tempest, as christic fevers—where mother cried, those
seconds of death, as fraught an overload). It hurts to hell, as praised through
heaven, getting closer to destruction; this riddle in time, to crave
adventures, where spirits spoke as specious—this arc in hearts, racing through
currencies, as charged concerning chaos: that abstract art, this unction of
fools, this woman watching. (I heard a song, to shoot a volt, where bodies
shivered; this heat in minds, as chilled to actions, while pure that middle
affection). I’m dipping paints, trekking barren soil, at tears this leaf; where
souls perish, that inner leprechaun, to flourish a sudden second; as mother
churns, to figure those plots, as life is one great deception. It had for
hearts, this anxious maze, astounded by distant love; to feign glory, a pyre of
secrets, a gift for utter destruction; this box in souls, this pensive paradox,
this partial plague—where souls gather, this commiseration, as never before—to
love her soul, until events, that person as blind. We came as force, that outer
devastation, those vocals as angelic: a chimney to a brain; a den to a lion; a
bit unbolted—where love was frantic, a kiss with pearls, a daughter as a
flame—to charge her soul, this planet of souls, despite the blunder; this pale
infraction, as compared to scars, where fathers play pretend; but more to love,
despite the poverty, acclaimed as sacred.
