Oh
for wisdom, that sky-born ache, encrypted by root-grains—to live a dream, at
terrors to soar, groaning in spirit as driven: that existential; those probing
features; that mirror’s recognition; to abide a star, at ventures through
phantoms, a bit maladjusted: those purple eyes; that defunct anger; that
tottering from charms to repulsions: if be it those winds, trekking those beige
alleys, our carpets plush with diamonds: that grin we perish, that sallow rose,
that internal gardenia—as mystic rites, vibrating at sky-drums, oblivious that
second of cessation: that mental pause, as born to lights, infatuated by mercy.
We tread swamps, our keels by parts, but a fleck to our puzzles: that lux as
light, permeated through Aum, at sessions with mirrors—that deep concern,
peering at mysteries, a bit pardoned by déjàvu: our brass as bass; our wreck as
finished; our spirits insidious flames; to culture life, a swan as genius, our
mothers as stitching currents—this falling by arts, our prompt for succession,
such zeal leaking outwardly; wherewith, that affect, this rhythm by flux, this
day as symbolic rebirth: that joyous love; those thoughtful gifts; that touch
of cadence—as deep our souls, this pith of fires, rapt by treasures that seize
by lights. We venture our rising, wafting gently, panting with deers: those
tragic antlers; that royal gait; our veils as graves to luxuries; whereto, are
spells, this latch unraveled, traveling by motion an outer koan: that mystic
music; that broken wholeness; our minds as flogged by mirrors: if life is
cordial, our myths as jewels, as realizing this devoted sobbing; that fabulous
power, as thinking through tears, to reach by hearts a whelming furnace: that
surging force; our Father’s ardor; that serum by emotions: to fly so warmly, this
deep esoteric, such plucking of tulips; where love screams, this practice of
silence, that orphic passion. We drift agaze, a flicker to blue fire, an asylum
of poets: if grays are vague, we surmise steeply, falling for crunching,
gripping our guts: this place of violence, as deeply unphysical, tiptoeing this
nub of existence: (to greet a swan, by core a gem, affected by thoughts our
passions: that medical voiceprint; that claret daisy; those reddish eyes: if
but to see, this welkin vision, as natives to deserts; while fully to souls,
our brooks at ripples, whereat, that puddle of ghosts). It flames this way, to
coil through thoughts, our toils cemented in luxuries: to swoon gently, at
prayers a drumbeat, at tears a violin.
