I
love with passion, an inner ventriloquist, a mental contortionist; to find your
heart, beating with cadence, our eyes your soul a miracle. If time is delicate,
this rabid ritual, to offset your agonies; this cry by wishes, as aches by
visions, our moons at sequences; to feel sporadic, as caged a bird, musing
through spirits; this outer Maya, this vigil Natasha, this heartened Tracy: if
cold our nights, then warm our waves, at terrors to feel—this electric arc, those
falling towers, our rhythms at war; or dangers we live, terrified through
medias, to arrive at something beautiful: that christic soul; that yogic brain;
that medium at arts our resurrections; to favor our lot, while chased about,
fleeing parental prisons: those deep fears; that priestly admonishment; that
angelic seamstress; as parted our lives, trekking a whetstone, immersed in German
prose. I re-awaken, as harshly asleep, resting in false impressions; to harness
mistakes, as peering at madness, ashamed to have features that reflect: that
casual pull; to become an ass; while words linger in dungeons: this chilly
countenance, protecting a fortress—heavily guarded by love-wings. I seep and
fall, crawling across tarantulas, peering at serpents; to see that smile,
created in minds, while laughing at mirrors: that beige insanity; that innocent
music; those terrors roaming our vast horizon: that fluid psych; that cautious
psych; those un-vetted perceptions—as steeping into consciousness, as appearing
in shadows, as radical American flags: those same colors, marching our souls,
at horrors to have lived—this feeling of tyrants, at beliefs a private image,
as if all threshed our minds: this daughter of souls; this fever of hearts;
this rich contradiction: our living oxymoron, paved in booths, while a bit
worried by attractions; to scold our souls, at magic that art, as mirrors rage
at natures: this singing scale, a bit imbalanced, at kites that roaming
thought. We die this mischief, afraid to feel, where others stand at oblivion.
It comes to brains, those flights of dreams, as wanting this thing we disdain;
not as us, but more as them, while our towers remain standing: this curious
feeling, shifting in thoughts, to know a man as but an illness: this inch to
moons, this cadence to rivers, this feeling we must endure; for hectic are
turns, as to see a person, where it’s easier to address an illness; but this is
life, this love of graves, seeking at churns. I disappear, fleeing to lagoons,
petting a cheetah: those marvelous paws; that trendy gaze; that terror by far
an animal; as living sightlessly, as seeing eternity, while oblivious to time;
to give a soul, as stolen from life, this woman a piece of ambivalence. It
could be justice, this world of feelings, streaming as rising to fall
perceptions—if more a dream, I’ll never awaken, a bit aloof.
