By
virtue our songs, that fulgent nuance, by travel our dreams: imbued hopes;
extravagant visions; that arc through intelligence—as seeing faces, that
something so subtle, afloat a Grecian cloud; to hold eyes, by mental palms,
reading our projections—as correlated with time, a field of fireflies, our
agonies reaching for love: that treasured inrush; that second for peace; that
shift in dimensions—to sing silence, our unsung ballads, our Tao as speaking
through shivers—this river of lights, our zenic delights, our mystics as
tugging at skies; to know for happenstance, this wealth of circumstance, our
romance as gripping gates—to adventure this chance, our fleece as sensitive,
charged through sorrows our chi. We awaken in parts, to have that feeling,
enchanted by our extractors—that inner letter, spinning by pivots, our tremors
speaking by myths—that story we sold; that eager response; as to address us as
zealots—those categories, if we dare utter differences, while probed this light
that status quo; where demons are memories, those hawks above, tugging for
yanking at subtle moods—to want definitions, for this odd abode, while
trespassing Wisdom’s Domain. Oh for midnight wings, a unicorn made magic,
adrift by fires those parallels—to dream softly, appeasing leviathan, at reach
this dragon of cries; to awaken gently, fingers to eyes, reaching for bottled
water: to chance those feelings; that sudden capture of ether; our moods
shifting through ether: as wings expand; as dream-visions ignite; while
vineyards produce exotic fruits: to have that dance, whittling a myrtle tree,
peering at a sensitive soul—as acquired through reason, or gifted from parents, or honored through sentiments—that
agitation, while feeling gullible, as others swarm in a hive of bees. It’s
gentle our souls: It’s harsh our souls: It’s a memoir plaguing our hearts—to
sing of softness, this kiss of whispers, feeling by trickles our ghosts—this
lavish assertion; this crying moon; that downcast through murk that sudden joy:
at peace with love; at woes with darkness; while to shift through tunnels that
magic; where mothers roam, while fathers admire, that turbid countenance to
glisten—at once a miracle, sorting through confetti, abandoned to this inner
pendulum: that multitude of feelings, as winged to fly, addressed by banshees:
our filtered hearts; our filtered dreams; our fires as magnetic—to drift by
passages, this felt appeal, our tragedies as kneeling by gates. Oh to dream—of midnight swans, pieced through
measures as midnight days; our captive limbs, fleeing through brains, as
soaring through mountains—as far again, this light of yogis, while chiseled
through affections—to come to earth, our alien souls, to have pardoned our
births; that welkin dream, as assorting worth, while to speak to something
esoteric: this play of hearts; this mental orchestra; this health through
streams our adventures; to hurt a soul, by chance that fate, as to become
estranged forever; this morbid song, as fate’s piano, our flutes seeking
harmony. It came with time, this tragic
affair, as to face-wash those delicate intimacies—where love was gentle, as
wings expanded, our fount pouring forth gold; but hell is us, our indelicate
forces, seeking to live while untaught: We merely station in life, offered
little guidance, finding ourselves fending as animals: this wealth of
heartache, at this juncture time for again, at tears to adjust our ceiling
mirrors—this deep asperity, as reality’s harshness, adrift this painful portal;
but more to wings, as believing our songs, filled by life this immortal
passion—as screaming expansion, filled with fires, at love this voice: to end
in ecstasies, this life as lived, to pass to seeds a legacy.
