We
velvet love, our silken robes, that precious negligee; as courted minds, a fist
full of fire flies, our skies mahogany: that infant music, as becoming elders,
crying our middle lives: this purpose riven, our dreams astray, as returning
our resurrection; that deep resolve, as reset in anguish, to die vicissitudes.
I loved an image—that firm disposition, that screaming pain—as built in tunnels,
our mire loquacious, while arts became expression: that cryptic trestle, our
inscribed anguish, our tears as cultic stains—to shiver with grace, that face
to moons, this rich transference; as mother perished, this life of thieves,
flipping money exchangers: that inner Monet; that holy Raphael; those lists of
letters as common souls; this trek as vanished, our language Latin, our angers
German; to see as cloudy, this nebulous storm, as opaque as random encounters;
to awaken sickly, that vomit to pillows, our courage to awash of memories; as
never escaping, building a fortress, those tales harming our souls; as seething
self, fraught with scars, killing our ambitions. I remember treasures, that
inner romantic, so enthralled by beauty: as welkin souls, fevered in ecstasies,
crawling abashed by passions: to see eternity;
those turquoise dreams; those eyes pleading understanding; to carry that
weight, as a live-in mentor, while proud to witness results. I loved a dream,
this mystery of woes, as filled with demons; those turbid motives, as more a
fling, becoming this lifelong hassle; to wrestle death, that time for again,
reading through Jung: this human song, as reaching humanity, if but a fraction
of our existence; where drums echo, this thrumming harpoon, as reaching
oblivion: that cultic angst, as all night prayers, while gripping upon
invisibilities: that rich cadence, our hearts looming, this majesty as unruly:
that dream for souls; that inner exhibition; our outer cries; as more that
life, enflamed with actions, while confused deeply. I knew a heart, as known
perceptions, to realize conjecture; this idealism, a bit quixotic, at tears
that Romantic Era: if but a vision; or more a nightmare; or arts to beauty;
this French excursion, those African eyes, our Canadian songbirds; as reaching
forever, in time this plight, repeating failed wisdom: that inner rejection, as
sought his life, those mirrors chastising love: if but a memory, this yearly
visit, one could flourish calmly; but days are thoughts, something flashing,
our mothers pleading for forgiveness. It comes with time—that deep tranquility,
while fraught with turbulence: if but to sing, that outer violin, as built to
extend a legacy. I heard a voice, this
gorgeous vision, while deaths were about that countenance—as bleeding
substance, this walk through meadows, while plucking beauty despite despair:
that ache we yen; that ache we mourn; that balance shifting through
vicissitudes: if but those eyes, as pure perception, as ever that cry; to die
with peace, at tears that ache, while carved into membranes; to exchange love,
as morbid catastrophes, to morph into tragic harmony.
