We
live voyages, an inner thermometer, a palm of nails. (We float asunder, our
tragic joys, pining for that dream, leering at strangeness): if angst that
moon, than pity those nights, awakened by memories; this force at peaks,
astonished we scream, agaze by a snail: as having love, that light-switch
feeling, to keels as shifts. Our cryptic wilderness; our city deserts; this
world a prize our acrobatics: that web by skies; that kaleidoscope; those
mental planetariums: as stippled our wings; or haunted our canvas; our mothers
gaining courage; while swans fly, in midst of geese—that reaching bridge. We
wander as magnets, a fist full of screams, or more, a palm full of wishes:
raging as pianos; singing as violins; laughing while winded our saxophones:
afloat our thoughts; out-sung by lives; studying cycles: that time for dreams;
that song for cries; our music traipsing our deserts; where arts are fueled,
lacewings are flipping—our doves are appearing—that cry they live, incumbent
upon glory, while at storms our chains: that treasured sibling; those vocal
debates; and attitudes sprouting wings—our religious temperaments, steeped in
mire, our souls felt as symphonies—to die or live, or more but signals, this
deep participation. I palmed acrylics; I shifted hats; this vice of memories in
time—as sung our lives, nibbling steaks, or sitting still: those peeking oceans,
at tales with souls, this love a muse a bite of potatoes. We vision this way,
escaping our islands, or sailing but a song to sing: that casual passion, as
natural that beast, while assuaged by lights: that pacification; that moment it
perished; that peak by arts that force—to kiss said dove, while palming said
lacewing, as adrift this electric portal: that inner trumpet; that resounding
oasis; this space in moments as deep beauty: if sought that music, this inner
fire, at courage to sort through undergrowth: that vast emptiness; as life an
image; to sort through clinging to love: our wonderful dreams; our lotus minds;
that fury by fame that driving viola; for hearts live, swimming through
forests, this endless river; to shift our souls, treasured at rotations,
chasing our elusive eternity: that
mystic grin; that sin by blessings; our symbols as stimuli—that famous swan,
clanging her cymbals—devastating arts: that vibrant soul; those deep
reservoirs; that touch as pain made harmonies; that cultic slant, flaming
through galaxies, as reaching as inner silence: that compass of dreams; that
telic ache; those steep wings.
