I
thought it peculiar, this welkin lose, while at effects our tours of poetry. I
thought of plurality. I anchored a sore. I caught forever in a cedarchest of
nouns. I adventured this rush, absorbed in city puddles, and stalked by visions
this ink as feminine. I mourned a daughter, as pure negligence, at tears, to
address our dynamics. I mocked a mother. I dreamt a demon. I condemned by
default this series of events. I never inquired into that valley of sorrows,
where pains dictate our behaviors: that feeling of abandonment; that rapture of
self-hatred; that need to feel desired. I ran, semi-demented, to heal as one
neglecting theology: this gentle comfort; that kind reply; that body of
prayer—as effected justice, or more this shift between intensities. We forest
this way, neglected by wisdom, this portrait we must earn. We increase madness,
fueled by anger, while reaching for compassion. We die in segments, this lose
of patience, while negotiating with mirrors; or more this illusion, where love
is free, and persons are searching for cosmic harmonies. I’m dreaming more, at
so many loses—while debating clocks: this unstoppable cadence; this immortal
cycle; this pause as realizing lose depends upon perception. There’s a present
war requiring stealth where unsaid persons are quite clever; as never this war,
this tragedy decided, and brains are seated at destinies: as casual dictators;
or cordial diplomats; or more, as literary legislators. If but our thoughts,
accustomed to peace, our stars could shift their vigils. Loses become
perceptions; while victories become catastrophes. We live as fugitives. Our
mirrors forbid images. We sing a furtive song. If but to see, as seen by
others, our minds would invert; for particles gather, as forming a portrait,
while others paint our habits. It’s a cold universe: that condemnation; those
silent positions; those beliefs without credence: to laugh as sailors; as
accused of something maladaptive; while ever this participation of unawareness.
We dream of kingdoms, this protective mind, as refusing a level of pain; as
receptive to joys, while distressing its kingdom, adjusted through partial
dispositions; but nights are music, this sea of angels, this whisper as so
convoluted, where hearts rest, while seasons become eternal.
