Could to Cry

I become maddened by human conditions, roaming this existential—to peer at Sartre, or die in Kierkegaard, as to arrive in Camus: that inner light-bulb; that rich epiphany; our daughters at pace that literature; this ode to wisdom, as born before time, while plagued by planetariums: if but that kiss, a bit off course, as Love has appeared: those cadence eyes; that tongue by knowledge; this distance as revealing; to sing at solace, that faraway vessel, as more an inveterate anchor. I heard King, that mountain sermon, created through Moses; as cried his eyes, as died his soul, as mourned our blackness: this feral exchange, to ruin our goodness, as accustomed to swagger: that nighted harpoon, thrust through ribs, piercing our delicate vase. If days are cordial, this inner motion, our women as equals: that foreign symbol, a bit academic, treasured by egalitarians: that captive music, those brilliant bars, that fantastic rescue; to live as fires, to forge as warriors, to Fromm with purpose our existential. I pillage presence, as pausing pressures, a bit concerned by interruptions: this fraction but chasing, that fall to equations, while riding algorithmic wings: that intricate Greene; those passionate Browns; our mothers reading Margaret Atwood—those sails as sewn, this flame as flickered, that frown as frozen—that cursed piano, that soothing harp, that soothsaying violin—if cried this life, a channel by stars, allergic to antennas. I fell to heart, this cultic drum, as flipping by thoughts our mystics: that swami ache; that fallen shaman; that Virginia Woolf—as more to souls, our transmigration, trekking this Psychic Mountain; to live our course, as sung our Tao, at tears our musicians. We source this way, curbed by literary stars, at mercy to chisel from perfection; this song of coyotes, as befriending spirits, at once to convey something wild: that merciless rhythm; that attic banshee; this woman wiser than men; to have lost that soul, courted by demons, as one alone this auditorium—where vultures hover, as live birds, speaking as sages. I could to cry, as feeling so scarred, but life tugs by essence those screams—where futures reach, tearing into time, pulling antiquity: if but a dream, I’ll envision life—ten psalms beyond infinity.