It’s
more that feeling, struck by infatuation, a teen at his prime; to die beauty,
at arms that light, and terrified of love; while dearly at mixtures, that
flamboyant mist, while treading father’s terrain: that local love, too close
for love, reading Kierkegaard’s Diary;
this tent of seduction, baffled by infusion, pawning as losing such graces;
that tale of treasures, peering at purple eyes, floored to ceiling’s inversion;
to watch it blossom, that inveterate pash, as another loves: this place of
fools, to unclasp love, where beauty becomes music; this deep irony, fettered
to pride, at woes to chose love; that cryptic furnace, at constant renewals,
fevered by lusts that ache. I took to passion, a kiss through denim jeans, as a
pianist’s gesture; this deep mystique, as never such beauty, too young to
manipulate such beauty; this cry of wolves, a leopard to wilderness, this daisy
as breeding lamas; to court for life, this two month exchange, as terror
permeated souls. It was more forever, every pregnant thought, while genitalia
adventured infinity. We die at turns,
churned by passion, at touch that young experience: those diamond hips, that
heart shaped bottom, that curly mane—as ever this lily, flaming through
gardens, at peace to cuddle affections; those terrible cultures, at wars with
puberty, and flushed through by varieties: that musing sway, those musical
thighs, that place so young that feeling; to know for nothing, as embraced by
life, that terror concerning raptures; to perish to live, as to die to cherish,
while missing cupid’s ankle: this fabulous song, at tears to remember, while
singing of passions. We live it torn,
this arrow at souls, while stripping a jaded thought. I float gently, through spaces in time, remembering
walnut eyes, an oval shaped face, those petite fingers, that elongated
neck—while pressured such perfect breasts, or dying such graphic calves, where
love nibbled upon hips; as more that navel, that ticklish grin, a bit to a left
turn; this ache in fools, as to love with flare, that deep curiosity—while
grounded in sorrow, or loving at width, this grief in souls.
