Kayaking Storms: Settled in Silence

I spoke by arcs, at winds to life, our wings snipped by thunder. I spoke of dreams, this inferior stance, peering at giants: that remote tension; that infinite anger; that hell by freezers our mercies. I disappeared, electric at music, arranged that interior activity: that soft agenda; as speckled our minds; a bit to hopes by failures; to vet such power, that cryptic rush, as afforded one last tyranny—to souls that perish, our poets practicum, our swans ingesting human nature—as cold a current, flickering a petal, seeping into casual tyranny—to ask his soul, of vicious that art, to have scolded our queen: by Churchill’s art; or such as verbiage that cries; where anger by truths becomes perfidious. I’ll chime decades, infused by dreams, seeing for swans that captive war; as torn by aches, at terrors to fly, held hostage by blackmail: that furious chorus; that hatred for men; that life as lived by spinsters. If courage breathes, those wings shall soar that test to exceed our limitations; as spoken easily, our travels to Princeton, or knitted in Westwood—while fevered a legacy, controlled by withdrawals, as riches enslave souls. (I shift a turn, abused by desires, at wars to create a perfect breakthrough; as intruding softly, by rites our king, straying as wild roots: if but her life, painted at crucial turns, we witness by firebirds).  It triggered agony, that muddy song, to flip by art our differences—as bold to lights, to see us presently, while swans absorb human behavior: that lesson taught; to do as one pleases; while to request obedience. It churns this way, peering at childhood, musing upon a portrait of Moses: that invisible image, imbued by sable eyes, our ability to depict a Hebrew; as thought to Jesus, an Israelite with blue eyes, as ignored he probably grew dreads; but more to circumstance, our topaz screams, our precious agonies—if be it that light, this closet of secrets, that need for silence; as never to mention, a soul’s disgrace, as confronted for naturalism: that steep split; that genetic blackdamp; that essence beyond human construction; while to sing by arts, that muddy grin, as some smile in approval; wherewith, are scars, buried in pride, where one is centered upon pleasures; but more to swans, as gifted to live, influenced by myriads of souls; that turn in time, to see perfections, as to unzip inclinations: that chase by seas; that want for more; that ache for justice. (I shift a churn, painting with soot, diluting with tears—that unsung tyranny, as dealing with suchness, confronted with a mirror’s tragedy: those hissing hives; that internal trickster; that smaze by deserts: that up for down; that golden calve; that bias tabernacle; as living life, to want by nature, this thing entitled to souls; as fraught to witness, that type of person, while pictured as villain); whereto, are storms, debated with softness, while desperate to see it: our kind souls, to acknowledge wrongs, while seated at therapy. It comes that time, (a group of worlds), as pitted against a poet: those gloomy questions; that daily report; that inner terror; for life is beige, or even gray, while this need for pictured perfection; but days are morbid; flesh is screaming; even this art wails for classifications; whereto, a swan screams, chiseled by wisdom, remaining silent; for this is life, that unspoken agony, measured by trust—where secrets are important, while growth is stagnant, for I can’t utter but a few words.