It
was night-gaze, this plural event, to ponder a young swan;—this miracle gaze,
seeing as falling, to conjure a feeling;—where souls dwell, this furious
stream, as born electricity. I saw visions, as coming to lady-hood, pining for
Peter Pan; this ivory stone, a hidden name, this glory by nights. I give us
wisdom, as given wisdom, tugging at icons—to pull our souls, racing into
mystics, arriving an hour early; to praise by hearts, to live by signs, to have
this song; where swans conquer, as chiseling petroglyphs, as arousing an inner
fire; to love by grace, tugging a sleeve, creating a myth: that sister’s soul;
that eagle’s spirit—somewhere a sub-brain. We chase like that, as to upstream
like that, as to build a dam: those mental beavers, seething with
vengeance—attacking life; to scream this portrait, a series of mouths, dining
at our Last Supper. I caught a ladybug, to free a lady-star, but a satyr at
heart; this cryptic war, addressed by ghosts, peering at phantoms, those skies
as apparitions; where swans linger, as arising thunder, shuffling through a
credenza: those long vignettes; that curious prose; those letters as striving
arts; to dance so freely, a volt as confirmation—this sullen spell as wisdom. I
heard a whisper, to tug his brain, at course to float alive: where swans
conquer, as filled with glee, while balanced through rains. It should be life, this
inner inquiry, to feel every shift: our chances, Love; our arts, Love; our
music, Love;—as furious dreamers, even vision-catchers, agaze by sky-fevers;
where Love is serious, a seed to a plant, our warmth to a storm; to invade
self, tugging at memories, as wiping a flame. I called a Ghost; I plagued a
Spirit; it was life our scars that victory; to achieve lights, while dipped in
gold, a trophy as an atrocity—for love is strain, where days are fantasies, as
becoming a star-girl; so more that voice, as channeling fires, while steeped in
wisdom.
