I
dreamt a rose, this furious fuse, so strong but delicate. We stir islands, by
ships our waves, sensing intricate eyes; our faceless rose, as sentient
infusion, by tides that lonely shore. By far a vision, seated by portals,
amazed this passionate life: our surreal love; our bored chimes; this moment as
melancholic; to pursue sadness, as pursuing joys, our music our souls, keeping
rhythm. I love a dream; those haven fireworks; while streaming an endless tear:
that gaze by stimulus; that cosmic phraseology; that kiss such nectar our
sensuous ploys; as danced such agony, our childhood traumas, this cadence by
arts as classic. I tug a chandelier: I crave a stranger: I’m addled theologies;
as seeing a face, sketched by dreams, such casual wings; to fly as driven, or
driven to fly, peeking at jasmine: that furious scent; that infamous aura;
those waves our ships passing by; as colored our dungeons, at reach our souls,
pledged by intimacy those freedoms: if could our lives, wrapped in
taupe-jasper, such carnage a tulip diamond: those curious yelps, as more our
pleasures, perfumed by melancholy; to have this life, effected by genetics, at
courtyards wrestling phantoms: that faceless face, to awaken images, seated by
roots; as beauty mourns, those tears by love, our intimacy too much for tales;
as gutted hearts, stitched in blue velvet, leaking by seams our justice: that
attic amore, as crazed for more, fleeing by storm this sore; to remember love,
where addict’s dance, at chance a tale by cigars: that flitting moon; that
mauve gardenia; that stream as persons evolve—that inner monument; those marble
tiles; this pit as decorated by perceptions; where life sings, as rooted in
persons, our lutes so hectic; as time inverts, our terrors at souls, at beauty
our travesty; as not our own, roaming through parents, affected by personal
grains; to share agonies, or flourish affections, appeased by hearts; to perish
our pictures, while sensing our heartbreaks, at pleasures our faceless amore;
where souls scud, while songs aflame, as persons caress this telic dream. I saw
a vision; this inner museum—every artwork those eyes; as wretched forever, to
share such wretchedness, our joys ablaze—that second in time, to share this
adventure, to strip by grace our boldest nakedness—that tender violin, while
tragic our flute, at raptures a cultic wilderness: to share this dream; or to
die this dream; reaching for ear-waves: our hectic waltz; our bleeding brains;
those times we died.
