I
whisk for love, ever ambitious, losing by graces: this face of madness, our
pious ambitions, bathing in glacier waters—as more purgatory, touching as
dying, pulling shards of glass—as never he cried, a quake as a qualm, such
melodic redemption.
This
spotless lure; this casual attraction; to become so treacherous; while left to
guillotines, seeking after shelters, removed but found grieving. We spittle
irony, this puzzle of souls, this puddle of paradox; as chiming eternal, rinsing
red eyes, our gusset as bleeding through stitches: this horror of qualms; this
life we need; this mystic maze—as much a habit, our maxim as pure, our cymbals
as brazen: female magicians; male knitters; as both removed unjustly; this
forbidden cry, as grieving habits, while dyeing appetites; to lose color, this
absence of love, while channeled as Pyrrhic: that inner music, as singing eyes,
this market-brain of sorrows.
Every
stratum a daymare, as gripping ribs—misery unto atoms; to compose a nightmare,
or a celestial photograph, to construct a touch of unbelief; as never he
begged, but ever he pleaded, eager to believe. It struck a soul, those
metaphysics, that teleological expanse: where minds grieve, that ascetic dance,
bent through pressures of contrition.
We
came for justice, alive our torment, to embrace as dying: that ancient song;
that luminous chaos; our bodies withering in passions; as ever for justice,
this ache of redemption, as seething injustice: that pure pathos; that shaky ethos;
our logos as troubled amore; to flee
transgression, as never they lived, forbidden through death that sun!
…that
driven life; that order to chaos; that enamored retreat: to perish thrice, our
keystone confliction, where songbirds mourn.
Years
have settled; passions have grounded; we’re abandoned to apparitions.
I
grip a voice, as to construct our winds, while inventing fire; this web of
activity, to sigh our names, a fist full of earth; this treasured soil, this
deep intrusion, our pardoned reflections; where beauty flames, as coming into
bodies, this rich contortion—where souls vanish, as fleeing ambitions, if but
to protect such futures: this twilight symphony; this tremulous ghost; our
seconds as screaming, “Please!”
A
decade is near, as never to channel, while souls adjust—to more that angst,
fleeing mirrors, while roaming this land of ambitions—where arts flourish, as
fingers compose, aligned with passions, infused through emotions; as fraught
fatigue—spells abracadabra, our worlds visit that touch; our strengths
abolished, as far too late, tugging at a scented second.
