We
argue at times, this thing of wrangling, where two acquiesce: that determined
poet; that driven psychologist; that angst by awareness…to die gently, or
awaken gravely, favored by phantoms; where moods shift, that alienation, that
multiple person. I trek a mirror, this obtuse garden, at wonders of a soul;
that deep detachment, if but survival, as maintaining loyalties: those
sky-doves; that mental ferret; those tentacles cleaving reality: as more an
ostrich, at heart an elephant, at soul a sphinx—to die such grace, peering at
contours, a bit nonchalant; that inner cycle, as lusting luster, as more a
somber soul. There’s magic amidst, our inner psychologies, our outer
psychiatry—if be it our dreams, roaming attic valleys, seeping into cedarchests—at
core a memory, to ponder such peaches, at terrors about nectar: that second in
time, as filled with pelicans—that lavish flight, while sipping teas, a kettle
as a simile: that sleeping vision, as mortal segue, this man chasing
confusions: if but to perish, peering at beauty, adrift his location; this
social art, steeped in theologies, to see it at every turn: that argumentation;
a thesis by nature; a dissertation as royal—that creeping gaze, that wild kiss,
that terrific sensation: if must we live, amused by arts, perusing Rembrandt’s.
I sang a song, (more for presence than song), rapt in phantasmagorias: that
wide eyed soul; that mystic umbrella; that umbra with such power: that
infatuation; at tears to reap us; while too resolved to maintain us: but beauty
is intricate; that rich influence; where souls alter souls. It could be
legends, that literary excursion, while filled this insatiate curse—to flit or
scud, but more a pantomime voice; where passions percolate, as eyes instigate,
as never to tire from musing; that middle world, as merely a gesture, but taken
so seriously: that emerging force; that welkin ideal; that idyllic chase—to
sing with death, this call to life, as flipping in motion that dream. It should
be love; as love would perish; where affections peter-out: by chance a
chameleon; but what of acting; we become familiar;—so driven forever, to become
resentful, to chase a floating flower; this deep enchantment, as so ironic,
where love fevers; but oh to love, this furry within, while knitting
paragraphs. (It comes by grace, this inner aria, that mental cadenza—as far to
souls, engraved in feelings, while appeased by illusions; that furious fall, as
so enriched, to achieve by pains our beauty: that tempo aching; that treble
beating; that cadence as soaring; while found a lake, as filled with geese,
plus, a distant swan; as birth was boisterous, while conditions tragic, where
wings broke bars to flee: that need for adventure, that life without drugs, this
furry that couldn’t breathe; for souls crave, that deep ecstasy, once exposed
to that deepness; this cryptic fear, as laws shift, while hearts want
servitude—this creepy realness, despite infractions, while souls writhe in
agonies—to churn such sweetness, or die such islands, gripping a silent pillow:
that turn we bled; that ache we sing; as born to be apart).
