Such
sainted beauty, that glorious castle, standing by convictions; our picturesque
misery, confessed as love, agaze’d at souls—that chivalrous paradox, at mercy
those lies, such gist as festoon melancholia. I thought this soul, as one
drowning, where neither floated blue rivers. I pulled by thoughts, that inner
hurdle, to have kissed that tender delusion. We die this way, tugging at
tulip-caves, abreast, but sour, a rasp to merry-go-rounds; that tragic fiction,
but a kernel to a mansion, our mementos screaming by mercy: as lives an omen;
so crooked with time; that cadence by minds a specter; to live by cultic-caves,
at tears to utter faith, but a relic afar that enigma. Such tender disdain; to
have witnessed majesty; graced by nature those finishing classes: to know by
spoons; or to gesture by forks; that four-course meal: that terrible classism;
as needed by structure; that fleet of souls chasing—those cultic-waves, that
cryptic countenance, such beauty abasing itself: those treasured parentheses;
that postscript epiphany; this missive because pain is law; to outwit calmness;
or to outfox Bobby; such stamina enduring but lost. It’s not for pathos, nor
for ethos, as neither for logos: It’s more for freedom, as witnessed through
address, as possessing that particular essence; while never to off-course, nor
to rebuild, but rather that second at tears those freezer burns. Such is
softness; that existential; to efface that nib of enmity; as surfing notepads,
peering at eclectic words, while to jettison a childish thought; but oh for
wisdom, as realized earlier—we want for childish waves: that tragic heartbeat;
that flamboyant exclamation; that fumbling through sentences such love; as
opposed to machines, that meditated wildfire, where both serve for purposes. I
drift at stars, a stream as a soul, ever for threshed; that seashore arc,
embedded but a second, returning such jaded flickers: our capricious souls, discomfited
by love, as mad as poets—to winnow facts, as pursuing injustice, that touch we
die to live: to prod a lion, astonished by death, to arise that treasured kiss;
where love would run, by souls giving chase, to turn in agony that
disappearance. I’ve cried this way, a tearless arc, as fraught by lights; to
quest forever, amazed by souls, our thesis built on dementia: that stigmata; no
matter his status; as remembered a bit indelicate; but sage to souls, as souls
to sages, this miracle about futures: to live a heart, stationed afar, at
reaches a tender wave.
