Our art
this zone, amazed with drillings, as sifted by graces; that deep aphasia, at
wars with videos, astounded by such fires: that miracle motion, scolded to
captions, alive this backdoor—where love our feelings, as to conjure our storm,
while ever that vibration. We wander for patience, as pleading forgiveness,
while falling to deaf silence: that eager angst, shadowed in silvers, a man
swatting locusts—or swarming bees, stinging realities, where adults close
doors; those Frisbee arms, while flipping kites, as to retreat into a lover’s
flesh. We gallop to safety, alarmed at feelings, as rivers rush into veins;
this common ache, as needing forever, this
feeling seeping into distance. I remember Christ—those years at studies, rewarded
that sensation—as feeling mists, or electric fire, or feeling flushed with
holiness—to have this feeling, as passing into memories, our spirits wishing
for wellness. I’ve wanted more, where thoughts tugged justice, as to ingest
this art of brevity—where kisses are pure, those angles pointing towards
others, while ours lingers as mere myths; this strange attraction, as needing
that center, where Logos communicates—or more this Ghost, waving through
cities, as fleeing into sorrows—we’re needing less, as courting more, to have
chosen that good thing. I know our minds, wrapped in fantasies, reeled in by
justice; to create that moment, as opposed to yearning, where others strike at
ideas; that jasmine prose, or that jasper lily, or arts by fires to fall that gesture;
where nights are pure, while days are tears—our years creating havoc. I fiddled
an apricot, while nibbling a daffodil, pondering a sunflower; where justice
prevails, a man of feelings, tugged at death those pleasures; to arrive alone,
as to sing alone, where rooms are fraught with therapists; if but to dream, a
drum as earth, our drizzle as communion; to seek out closure, at wars to
seclude, where others are reaching forward: our creative music, this blessed
affair, our cares to science that moment; but still as light, those aqua fires,
peering at blue flame; to die with ease, as coming to life, that love piercing
silence: those flavescent tulips, as mere symbols, pointing towards spring:
that effervescence, as blooming poetry, while artists writhe through
in-harmonies. I’ve tied a soul, fleeing through jungles, pausing to pet a
jaguar: as daughters smile, while mothers grimace, where grandfathers wipe a
tear; to have one dance, as to part forever, while cleaving to one dance; that
miracle as silence, that crystal lake—those beige goodbyes; to know such
hearts, as khaki garbs, pressured by feelings this ache; as sore to justice,
this cry for mercy, where left is right, as right is left, while souls writhe
in silk: those magenta wiles; that artifice of waves; this crevice as seeking
solutions; to know that mind, as charged-experience, as to pierce realities.
It’s more that feeling, to live as poets, to endure those agonies—while flaming
textures, or carving tiles, or tap-dancing rooftops; that chance by aches, as
to miss his part, where said love becomes a trial.
