…as
long to live, fitted in diamond hats, fettled to trespass…this ache by souls,
our country vows, at value for something murky—this terrible justice, to crawl
by bars—at levities something sincere; to have lost communion, by terrace those
rebels, as running from mistakes: that default noun; at praise our mirrors; one
left to confusion; but long those cries, as pleading more mercy, while at peace
to perish this dearth; for days were hellish, as never to come, racing towards our
cul-de-sac; as left this lime, scrubbed into wounds, abashed by carnal
thoughts; as belonging to others, colored as affection, our psychs speaking of
courage: if nights are chaos, this miracle sister, tugging while running
through psyches: this vicious smile; that awkward grip, while studding a
cryptic illusion; to find we couldn’t, while embedded in seconds, as to affect
our futures. It comes as natural, to pop said bubble, while diagnosed as
malignant: if but that moon, this inner tiptoeing, this cliff shadowed by
vestibules: that broken hallway; those melting walls; that alley a fathom that
right turn; as feeling muddy, or even grimy, but pure as immortal contagions.
It came by absence, to stream by presence, where our samurai was done teaching:
this outer dirge, dust by deserts, this rending of tunics—attacked by poverty,
at wakes by breath, this catacomb inflicting justice—this taekwondo, at peace
through Tao, at sudden to realize our heaters: if love to live, it shall never
return, afflicted by passions; while spotted in London, or traversing through
Grammar, this cold detachment: that fetid tomb, our bodies at ritual, while
wrapped in herbs by spices. We know by miracles, while lurid our cries, at
dreams this chorus—to defend our souls, divested of an empty promise, while too
human to chase Jesus: as thought simplicity, while threshed by holiness, but
too bold to witness an unreachable orchard; to fancy a tennis ball, as more
compelling than a distant breeze, at tortures to forget investments; but if
love is gentle, it shall never return, where fires are flushing through
vineyards—this miracle blessing, as reaching our apex, as to climb by aches
this endless ladder; where ghosts are mirrors, filtering by whetstones, this
visage our souls threshed through academies;
where love examines, that budding plum, verses that ripened peach—to see that
light, as confusing flutes, this lute of mystics…if be it that death, by nature
of rebirth, to sculpt passion by ocean tiles.
