He
was old, this early moon, tugging at ocean graves. He was silence, at war those
warm waters, pinned to silken pages: those inkless memoirs, stationed in
memories, our portraits on repeat. We become, screaming, those loud rooms, this
man squiggling in a straightjacket: those bulbous dreams; that mirror at parts;
those halves racing towards majesty—if but to mend, as cried his life, at
tender affections with behavior; to see us writhing, at midnight lightning—this
swan gluing popsicle sticks; as rift asunder, doodling upon cardboard, while
pitching grapes. We examine pressure, a bit exaggerated, if but this
disclosure; where mother hides, this inner caveat—his intentions as slipping
his grasps: to meet such spirits, those outer parallels, as two remain
strangers: to ponder his brain, while to examine her moon—those territories as
forbidden crystals: while touching faces, at courage to succeed, where trauma
becomes rocket fuel. They spoke a song, this rich melancholia—those joys
relished in pure sadness—to cry his brains, this caved eclipse, at tender cries
his soul: to aid this force; to curse his woes; to remember that faint
attraction; where souls perish, for days are accounted, while fancies roam this
Jewish desert. We cry this fire; we sing teleology; we vacuum metaphysics—this
call for justice, as disturbed as ethics—our theologies revved into pavements:
those tunic eyes; that mahogany bruise; our art becoming immersed—this portrait
as scribbled, as chalkboards scream, where chess pieces become life; as
running so fast, ever at arms-reach, while coddling cheetahs: this war of
psalms, that inner negligence, that rash stemming through soil; to exhaust this
feeling, beyond our cadence, while to accomplish said torture: that cryptic
goodbye; that summer as new; those dreams as extinguished; where years waited,
as thought that vision, made bold to cry, “Illusion.” He signed his woes, as to
notice his leg, this flinching sensation; while to sit in patience, this inner
sight, as thought his features; to see such love, beyond radiant stars, at
courage his imagination: whereby, she spoke, slipping as a phantasmagoria. He
thought distress, this vest of arts, those treasures as psychosomatic; to feel
such tugs, this light through cities, this clown painted but crying; as charged
his mind, this faint resilience, where pain would become music; this darkened
room, as doors fumbled, while hinges squeaked: that bold confession, screaming
at gestures, while onlookers sought to see that vision: that deep flirtation,
as chattering lullabies, while pitching marbles: this rich legacy, to find
survival, as said woman appeared.
