I
don’t claim martyr, this esteemed position, as to wonder of such faith: I claim
eternity, this man addressed as
spirit, professed to self as motion: those darkened nights, seated at a psych’s
words, ashamed of multiple bars; as breathing deeply, those silver shadows,
amazed at time’s pardon; to drift through billows, accustomed to horizons, to
wonder of such our needs; to have that friend, as singing sorrows, while
adjusted through joys; this miracle current, as searching for deeper, to have a
Swan’s Song—this rich melancholy, as
sweet by nectar, to perform through fires—as sung through bleeding days, this
wave of souls, to have such feelings through one life. I know of loses, this
music as mellow, as to address humanity—this existential, while musing through
Camus, as adrift this portal of fires; that pure lament, as seeking solace, to
reach by chance that invisible hand; as taking a risk, that prone
disappearance, where vessels are participating at life: that mirror’s piano,
accustomed to violins, as one flutes forth pure poetry; those Country Songs, or
more this New Age, falling into something beyond definition; as reading
martyrs, or praising life, at sores this hearted confliction: this wealth of woes,
as fiery joys, as read this deep contradiction: our paradox sung, abating
illusions, at pleasures to feel this connection. I claim eternity, this loud whisper, addressed in segments of existence; that
frantic timbal, our duet quartet, while strumming this locket; to unlock
trumpets, this beating brain, an opus fraught by angst; where swans ingest,
this arc of symphonies, fingers gripped through fences; as watching our story,
this pleated sky, alert to timbre as waves: this remarkable song, as pure fires,
buffing rusted mirrors that blur: this art of times, as seismic joy, a bit
sombre concerning realities. I don’t claim martyr, this fugue of existence,
while near that cliff as gripping soil; that pensive sadness, while spreading
infusions, as born prior to those carnal blessings. I reappear, this mortal
spirit, as sunk into this spirit mortal; to sense this likeness, as pledged
percentages, to wonder of atmospheres; this old mockery, as forgetting oneness, where Godhead is seated in
humanity; as in through outs, or outs through ins, this creative play of
semantics: where justice grieves, as grieving justice, while pigeons frolic
yearning return: this silk as spun; this sore as silver; our texture a bit sad
as sullen; but more to bliss, this rich attar, as charged to oil shrines; this
orpine love, as melded in symbols, reaching for eyes within; those nova brains,
pleased to enter eternity, spinning
from ruts to flares; where humans listen, as sensing our souls, as promised our
minds: this privilege wooing; those oaken nights; that love by grace an ontic
flame. I don’t claim martyr, this noble disposition, this man at shares his
turmoil; as soaring through lights, to render such passion, to see for good in
our miry lakes; that inner lantern, while dripping oils, as still radiating
light; to feel such flame, adrift a center of darkness, to grab said flame
while searching: this welkin fever, this lotus dream, our lunar dispositions. I
claim eternity, this joy pardoned by
sorrows, affected through madness: to hold this palm, our wordless song,
stippled for stitched in love; as pure paradox, while seated at bliss, this
struggle born of mavens.
