Tuesday, March 14, 2017

Silent Fire

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.  

Strumming a Harp

By language we speak to audibility and coherence. To compose to feel understood, in spite of language applied. A person spends years misunde...