Is
it words that carry meaning, or is meaning dependent upon the interpreter?
I
cupped a petal; I felt a dream; I lived by ages. I cried at silence, filled
with blankness, attempting to nudge nothingness; such miracle music, our
systems at .8, fevered by fireflies: that Joker’s grin; those Batman ideals;
our wander-night-souls. I’m filled by lusts, at passions concerned, or more to
tragic flatness: that dormant rocket,
to outwit glaciers, amazed a pigeon eating grass—this clump to arts, our canvas
laughing, our soul-aches groaning. I gazed afar, running through meadows, at
once, a terror, those mirrors: that deep horizon, to churn his life, by agonies
a man fawning: that gravid glance; those delicate palm-prints; that brow
sifting through confetti; as loved our hearts, that shapeless masterpiece,
tickling sky-fires an opus. I read a missive, such terrific horror, at toils to
discern our screams: that ballad wisdom; our simplistic confusion; our bedlight
wisdom—as jotting textures, awash’d in crimson, but hectic a vision—to trace an
ocean, that emoted opera, spotted as singing to wretchedness: that frigid
furnace; that invisible knitting; that pillow by tears, so heavy—agog by
melancholy, that welkin outcome, our punishment, our joy; this light by wisdom,
our vibrant women, our inmost embers. We veiled a monsoon, captured by essence, our rapture but an image by
cadence: our hamster’s fatigue; our souls as potters; our minds running, as
rising, a sky-dream: as nigh delirious; or hectic nigh bliss; this ache by
passions our sins—that furious woman, singing so softly, agaze’d that mischief
of madness; our intimate souls, as dripping calories, while melic a storm our
wars. I’m screaming silence, that small trail, that narrow passage—at tolls
with self, amazed by tuition, that fiction by arts—our fictional realities,
that freelance illusion—if be it a soul, steeped our academies, sectioned to
picklock our souls: as embellished thunder, to extract persons, such fables
igniting streams: that gloomy peace; that magnet mind; our treasures by void a
touchstone: if be it for wisdom, this fulcrum by love, starry-eyed by agonies
such to churn. I met a cloud, steeped in flowers, studded in fireballs—to
ensoul a mirror, or to siphon a wound, carried by tragic triumphs. We laughed
by grains, a raindrop to a temple, that voiceless voiceprint: our casual dance,
by chance a dream, to awaken to spittle; that eerie feeling, while a bit
refreshed, or heavy a daze: our symbols to garbs; our hearts to language; our
passions to caution—if but a scream, to treasure by nature, this vest by arcs
as soaring; where bosoms swell, our fettered fires, aflame a heart-storm;—as
delicate fingers, caress a delicate scar, while enraptured through chaos.
