Mystics to Yogis

Our tragic nights, a bit complaisant, while laughter rumbles through waves; to see our mirrors, to frighten our souls, to ask of our dispositions: this cryptic moon, that cultic sun, our metaphors running amuck: those tiny fingers, at caress his mind, those colors spinning ecstasy—as seen in Sienna, as charged through London—our aches wrapped around words—at course to perish, thrown in rapture, our bodies shifting through pulsations; as agony sings, this dirge of joys—our melancholic bliss—as shadowed a man, or tender this woman—our souls yenning for altruisms; if but that flight, to feel passed human, this lot of brains as crucified. It becomes texture, our professors sipping liquor, our psychs evaluating altered states; to come that mountain, scribbling our deepest missives, while crawling into our memoirs: if seated that arrow, while cupid is vicious, to have tugged a heart by oblivion: this sheltered love, as wild as lemurs, this field of deep despair—as livid this curse that voice by arts, to suppose a curious future—where treasures are morbid, as time is aloof, this turtle abandoned to deserts: if music would heal—this majestic sunrise, our souls would be at peace that garden; but more are thoughts, awakened to cruelties, where unsaid flute was taken for normalities: oh for curses, flowing into Mechtild, rummaging through Gertrude—at powers to embrace Eckhart, our fingers trembling, as a universe bleeds—becoming this symbol, running as falling, where dungeons become immortal pits: our internal grayness, those beige twigs, but a perch for songbirds; to feel this art, at mercies to convey—this wealth of cadence; as never forgotten, planted in soil, our roots as fluid as our absence; that curse by memory, to have induced a fire, at tears that extinguisher: to instill a furnace, right above our cellar, while crying our banshee’s attic—those heinous chains, that inner ballet, those operas meshed into science: if but enrichment, our brows amazed, while yogis step to bat: this casual dream, as becoming sulfur, our caldron simmering unto madness; to push his soul, as cultic as religions, this measure by chance our psychology; to evade self, a moment to a mirror, a vision to trash bins—while born at dawn, to awaken at noon, as coming to resurrect by sunfall: oh for cryptic chi, as striving to buff mystics, while giving that thing that ruins: that incompleteness; that medieval reality; that churn by aches our misery; where passion soars, at needs for channeling, while broken through chaos; as more dreams, or searing friction, this absent moon.