I
love like madness, this cryptic swan, those petal eyes: to find bliss, this
brain of marbles, our dual infestations: our promises as children; our bold
dichotomies; our Father as perfect Love. I found a secret, this biblic
dinosaur, as to suggest our errors; this curse of thoughts, invading our souls,
to separate our preferences. I see us dying, while living this life, accustomed
to our comforts—as ever that trial, cleaving to red eyes, torn asunder by
wintry nights: that floor as dust; our souls as confetti; our sins as
acquitted. I felt a voice, to see a mirror, to awaken gripping midair: that
surgic heart; those mystic cries; our pathways screaming; as bent through iron,
this cymbal angst, our trumpets blasting chaos; to rooms of madness, this
vestibule of love, that terror as pain. We see visions, or conjure dreams,
while assisting, Daniel: this miracle soul, our inner vitamin, this prophet a
particle of souls: (if gentle our nights, this peace for doves, peering at
magpie eyes: this terrible joy; this crafted sanity; our seconds nibbling
Almond Joys): if hearts are warm, our swans shall fly, gilt’d in caramel
compassion. I’m dancing at wolves, communing with ostriches, yanking at our
brains: that cryptic pit; that sombre ladder; that message fleeing insanity; to
cry his lights, as despair becomes morbid—our souls as candent sorrows; where
sisters sing, that dirge of souls, as to arise Elizabeth’s heart: that casual
imperative; that streaming electricity; our palms rinsed in ecstasies. I
fervent our hearts, this unyielding love, despite our deference; as sung his
life, failing obedience, as afflicted for straying: this universal; as founded
in parents; while to carry over to adults. I furry our souls, that type of
fire, to fuel determination; as dying to live, while living to fly, where birds
are jealous—to see us soaring, at favor with angels, a chariot as a spirit:
those cryptic wings; our Father’s blueprints; our Carpenter’s handiwork; to
travel cold roads, at tears to loneness, at souls for mercy—as chiseled into
winters, melding into ruins, abandoned to dregs; this gelid curse, while
sighted a wilderness, as filtered by nature; this craving culture, to arouse
this heart, while soaring in resurrections. I love us winged, flipping through
spaces, at aches such radiant joys: that soft explosion; that chi to tiptoe;
that tender caress—as more a human, that cauldron of feelings, infused by
cherubs.
