You’re
an answer to a dilemma perceived through waning eyes. You’re a miracle in midst
of calamity those radiant tentacles; to know hatred, a slingshot but a pebble,
as witnessed those falling monsters; to cry but a frenzy, our problems with
blessings, our faith as snowballs—that rising velocity, that visitation, those
probing agonies; to become sacrifice, as determined resurrection, that tongue a
welkin monstrosity—as spoken that touch, that mystical tear, a room abandoned
to wind-drops—as shifting currents, our precious afflictions, as testimony to
that wretched face: our colors as psalmic; our drama as internal; that aura as
self-resurrection—or more our mirrors, or more our terrors, associated with
wind-drops: to touch by spirit, that rushing tide, as fused through raindrops:
that lambent contour; those candent eyes; that treasure by daybreak our
infusion; to impart to sun-drops, that terrible torture, as refined in father’s
furnace—to dance so gently, this fever of wisdom, adjusted through trials as
tribulations: that shame by togetherness; that rain by otherness; that coming
to senses through radiance; indeed, to breathe, to magnify justice, as one
destined to witness fey—that otherworld, racing through cadence, while seated
an effusion of supernal nature: that faucet’s baptism; this space in hearts; that
pool to glisten in testimonies—if only our songbird, this lethargic feeling,
awaiting rivers to sing—that casual mountain, to shiver by force, our scrolls
unraveled in silence;
to see our havens,
as lost portals, or shattered oceans, or daylight dreams, while seamed in
madness, afflicted with realness: if but our phoenix, our beautiful thoughts,
this science by miracle our metaphysics—to
dine by graces, upon something a petal, this feeling as oneness—our anxieties
as tournaments, our tortures as mentors, our glamour our mental projects—as
taken time, this maestro excellence, this thing evinced with majesty; to piano faceless, that familiar grime, those bitter waters—as being his face, or changing history, our songs of disappointments—that
challenged rod, so many devoured, our scepters screaming for mercy; to guide by
prophets, this mind eternal, as slept on beauty those terrors; where mother
sighed, my grandmother’s child, my aunt’s sister—that place we died, as lived
our lives, four generations of affections—that ring of glories, those intricate
symbols, as keeping good, to jettison
bad; this hectic terror, as that
mystic light, sullen but a sage of justice: those spirit-eyes; to know we left;
to know as forsaken’d.
I
walk in your greatest, your essence my
dreams, our presence woven intricately: our sun with Joshua; our promises
restricted; our tales a bit tenacious—as casual sorrows, or an unbreakable
bliss, shadowed by this process; to have our years, speckled with defeats, as
seeming intractable; that breakable silence, those tears at scales; that
showing as coming to maintain balance: that mundane routine; that organ at
sudden; that second as breaking-through; this accumulation, at treasures those
symbols, that feeling until it feels no more; to perish routines, at sudden
that kiss, that annual resolution—if but a dream, this orchid sermon, as
disappearing while demons call—to celebrate weakness, while humbled by greatest,
this tale of vicissitudes; to offer mercy, to court forever, to become a
person: where deaths are normal; as triumphs are process; as fluctuating
through blessings: that cherished scream; that sudden snap; such as life
out-written: those tides as ebbing; our swimming as treasured; our clouds as
rainbows.
We waited that
love, abounding in pressures, this training for warriors—as born grieving,
while living intermittedly, this process of glorious tears; to feel forever, as
popping into spirit, affected by backsliding; as more this quitting, or more
that flying, fleeing into wind-drops: where agonies tense, while prayers
labyrinth, as souls are closer.
