They
see us mourning; they see us dying. I’m confused about love—this gray endeavor,
this matter of tomorrow, this finicky feather. But more too passion,
electrified by tears, falling that space;
at mischief madness, speaking telepathy, as fashioned demented—this like
of wolves, our grandparents churning, our motives a bit morbid. I see a swan; I
feel a soul; I’m hearted by three—this song of coyotes, such force as driven,
kicking through zenic woes—as cried a mystic, this telic grace, flipping
through feline claws. (Is that a swan, adrift a portal, rising as mourning as
so simultaneous!); this dream of souls, our mothers at wars, our fathers
inebriated—to cast a spell, those innocent eyes, forbidden from sadness: as
running forever; or growing into nonchalance; where others are experiencing
feelings: this space they left us, as furious brains, a bit to inversions;
where spiders web us, while lizards lick us, as more this pit through Satan’s
eyes—as turned our sparrows, filtered by sagas, alive our beating skies: that
drum to fall; that fear to rise; our hopes shifted by ambitions; for What is truth?—this thing of fools, that
woman guided! (It gets this way, this art for wisdom, that glorious sky-fruit):
as torn blue rivers; or beige terror-domes; chiseled by anchor that eagle’s
dreams; to confide in wings, a swan as driven—this serious temperament:
forsaken oldness, ever at newness, while called to abolish something dear: this
foolish self; this child’s parachute; those seconds adrift indecisions; as more
circumspect, floating through meerkats, peering through their concentration:
that casual request, where epiphanies swarm, at tears to realize that person.
It comes by force, this inner delusion, as essential to growth—that treasured
spurt, racing with cheetahs, as calm as owls; as this is life, a bit
alchemic—trespassing to transform: this wave through rain; as charged through
brooks; that shiver as ghosts alighting from hearts: indeed, for love; indeed,
from pain; indeed, from joys. (I admonish a soul, as ever as grounded, where a
phoenix breathes: those days of men; those cries of daughters; this need to
focus early—as is that light, to feel this wealth, embedded in temples).
It’s
a casual dream, as opted, “Just to live”—where things are a bit haphazard: this
devious feather; those cunning waves; that tendency to utter pleasantries: if
but that life, courted through deceptions, a glutton for pleasures—while needed
to breathe, this inner compass, gripping with passion that inner diamond; as
read our souls, that mystic gravity, assigned to flying.
