We
imagine I never enter’d you; this wretched disgust.
Was
it not, this thing of spirit, this injustice; as dejected cries, fresh from
turmoil, as feeling rescued; that term of hells, that icy-hot madness, cringing
at a soft touch? Was prison near, this glowing cathedral, this paradise of abrasions;
as dying love, this facial appeal—our crazed midnights; where mother appear’d,
a symbol of psyches, as psychosomatic—that binging sorrow, a portrait in brains,
a daughter as a protégé? We knew repeats, as familiar restaurants, that trauma
so close to hearts; as yearning misery, while speaking healing—that adrenaline
rush; as pulled for tugged, to unlatch wisdom, so close too missing insanity.
Is it silence, those watery eyes, something pouring invisibility; this trampled
twig, as mahogany bark, growing through sidewalks; that cry, as gripping
aloneness—those secrets—as speaking to no man, our shoulders from God, as
rescued one last again! Was it crucial, our intercourse, atop a mountain—as
knitting melancholy, those ill-gotten pills, to lose it all one breath? Was it
us, this trembling angst—that Bugatti distrust—as more this measure, pleading
forgiveness, to expect eternity? It’s less deserts, as furious oceans, drenched
in solemn hatred; as impure religion, or pure humanness, with purpose to
destroy. We never met; but merely an
image; this world without linchpins: as cold address, this fantastic grayness,
this anguish without pegs; to harvest wilderness, as pained to feel, those
internal flames; to want more, this fool’s chase, a stranger as a best friend:
someone lost; as found rarely; as seeking to tillage sky-falls. It became memories—enlove with distresses, as
warm as imagination: so dusty and dusky and terrified, to love as passions,
atop injustice, as shared through cities—that casual friend, as wanting life,
where such is refused: that inner beast, this fusion nature, our abilities to
entrance ourselves; as believing justice, to honor potential, where said
destroyed a legacy. It becomes easy,
while hating one, to give to wretchedness; this curse of self, running through
mirrors, chased by sheer disgust; that ignorant friend, as dearly intimate,
while abased at souls—this craving insanity, as seeking for wholeness, a bit
too broken; to jeopardize love, while pleading to whys, that feeling of vandals; where hell was pretty, that old
person, this new beast. Are we honest,
ever this catastrophe, awakening love; as mere fools, atop a roof, floating a
fantasy kite?
