We
inherit this life, steeped in curiosity, locating unpleasant truths: this
morbid mind, fleeing through darkness, at tears, over ideals; those grand
perceptions, wanting more than pities, or more than pleasantries; as sleeping
silence, a sandal as witness, a world inverted—adrift a portal, an inner
canopy, while they mock such distance: as self-sufficient; budding with
strengths; a bit appalled by life;—to take position, as one qualified, this
method of Socrates. Death was jingling
love, where souls pardoned love, this desolate distress: that morbid mind,
edging towards ignorance, as one sighted as bitter: this art of control; that
slow decay; at sacrifice, or even deaths, that others smile. It’s dusky, Love;
this vestibule of misreads, afforded a palm of dust: this morbid mind; a mere
iconoclast; or better, this foolish idealist. We die this heart, outlined in
differences, striving through majesties; to growl tears, or even to roar love,
asking that mirrors reflect truths; but this is madness, this gray perfection,
this relative convention; as dying forever, or living our truths, at hurts to
confess self-depreciation; where patience dwindles, or perceptions morph, where
one becomes a gadfly; so more to beauties, as more to solipsism, or more this
antiquity for thoughts. We become callous; this hebetation; affected by
ruins—our confused faces, tripping through thoughts, while pointing at others.
It happens this way; a level of insanity; where others are oblivious to wrongs
perceived; so live as spoken, deep in conversation, as to debate our terms; or
utter silence, to incur a tumor, while secrets remain. I know days are coming,
where love shall prevail, as opposed to so many worlds: those acacia blossoms;
our plunder into science; our fuel as peace through dreams—this message as
arts, this candle to flicker, at hearts to see a similar flicker; as born to
majesty, dressed in cedars, at joys to that degree—this furious endeavor, while
touching tenacity, at needs to listen. Our
yokes are rooted; our vex by design; our epitomes by epiphanies; to sing our
song, while strewing our seeds, at souls awaiting fruition; to soar with grace,
as wrestled humility, our ventures shared. I see a swan; this inner falcon;
this destiny to outsoar—as mystic at heart, or Buddhist by rites, living a
christic reality. We sing this way, this art of prophecy, inferring through
experience: those shifting realities, to have lived fortunes, aware, acute, but
zealous; as so infused, esteemed through manners, as one worthy of trust: this
furious reign; incumbent upon souls; while often retracted; so fly young swan,
to dream young swan, as a courageous young swan.
