I
thought to voice, as heard an introject, fluttering for a swan. I dyed a tear,
in crimson waves, at arts our grandparents. I sewed a vision, at sights a
cygnet, so far those delusions. I forgave a princess, at search that castle,
while felt that Buddhist’s glare: if torn those nights, fevered as a villain, The base things of this universe; as
crawling passions, a gremlin to a queen, a psychopath to a psych; to dream eternal, eyes spewing mercy, while venom
drips his sockets. I charmed a serpent, this pastor’s fire, where demons caught
a fever: that treasured tale, an addict secluded, as one to capture such
strengths: that bleeding Ghost, that wrist from walls, this grail as
dungeons—to muse as dying, our muscles as grieving, at terns a mental spasm. It’s
cold by summer; while warm by nightfall; our swan by womanhood; as born
asunder, while love pleads, at wars that cryptic design: our indelible graves,
frequent by breaths, our terrors a notion surreal: if art is treacherous, I’ll
live such treachery, as falling through ether: that deep imprint; that passionate
quake; or more your heart growing fevers; to live eternal, an idyllic intuition, even for dellic skies; as spoken a
dream, to irrigate flame, seated by flawless laughter; indeed, by furry, this
chase of feathers, that sudden inrush. I walked a brain, filled with purpose,
this catch as tense a storm: to thunder a name; to bleed confusion; at shifts
this ache as comfort—that terrible explosion, fleeing our wilderness, at pace
to capture a desert: that inner symbol, that heart-sky undulation, those
horrors by bliss. It came by tales, those baby teal eyes, as fevered in
dragons—where pain was dreamlike, this kiss by furnace, our effulgent
splinters—to cry such justice, a bit sold to Genesis, a bit bold in Romans—as
knowing feelings, raised by cultists, at treasures that occultist’s mind: if
brought to planets, our genes to apes, our dreams to temptations—as more a
chimney, this chipping at soot, so reticent unto freedoms; that torn goodbye,
that warm fervor, those aches by fires our courage. We live this way, an outer mantra, fleeing by wilderness: that
christic gaze; that hell-splendor; that pearl piercing veneer: if but a shadow,
as linked to fantasts, while earshot a phantom—to whisper about love, while
steeped in love, a bit abased by love. It’s contradiction, envisioned as
paradox, our moon bawling by wisdom: that fatal churn, as giving life, this
pillar by grace our mother’s farce: if died that night, to rise that morning,
our reward a cup of riches—as fueled by masks, running this mirror, our images
gnawing at shadows—to cry forever, as rinsed by evening, to relish in
contradictions: that kitten’s purr; that puppy’s yelp; that sandal too sacred at
straps—as more this winter, our laughing emotions, processed as sorrow—to live
forever, immortalized in stones—upon a wish that blanket; as turned his lights,
a stream of terrors, peering at jacinth eyes: if thought his mind, that crooked
churn, our love would perish.
