I’m found
at islands, a soul at dawn, reaching for groping midair; that gusts of
cheetahs, gnawing at waves, as we ponder more this vacancy; as tomorrow is
promise, this kiss of melancholy, as meshed those days of healing. We dance to
radiance, while to chance our futures, gazing at an orange sun—that magnet
charm, those hours those eyes, paraded as one afar—that chilly moon, and
bluebird songs, while salt to earth our legacy. It churns softly, as one
possessed, at tears something unappeased: to avoid delusion; as to sit through
silence; a vessel of pure feelings—that discomfort, as to pop a vitamin, or to
spark a cigar. I must to wonder, of things so gray, those fingers as gentle
instruments: that lethal caress; such baggage to pyres; while saved a second in
time—this miracle light, a bit too hopeful, as instructed to hold back—where
nights are christened, while stars are vocal, this force of radiant dreams—to
kiss forever, this part as aloof, while centered in non-affections—this moment
of aches, as pure affliction, while claiming as unaffected; but arts to
passions, this christic soul, as needed that fire’s illusion; or more to
broken, at reaches for nothing, while seasoned in pure confusion; to silence
thoughts, that intense feeling, as to open gated wounds; this cry of love, to
hate as fools, adrift this portal in minds; to feel your aches, this secret to
hearts, while seeking to part our Red Sea; that mischief mind, afforded
affections, while nursing a grieving ego; that place of reality, as seated in
dysfunction, where emotions are portable. I know a name, as less is more, if
truths come to comfort. I admire this fancy, a professor of letters, a bit
abased by self—as torn contrition, mending shattered islands, while rafting
through canyons—where mother cried, as father nourished, prior to fiascos. I
know a feeling, as charged eternities, our
essence as guarded—to remember time, this man of feelings, adrift a silent
frequency—to find your face, screaming through canvases, every pixel a
heartbeat—as more to love, while shaded in meadows—our luxury a silent stream;
that castle of men, as dying for sirens, where a lawyer sits estranged. I know
a curse, as feeling for cultures, to have healed at degrees—where memories
probe, as born electricity, something we can’t shed.
