Baptize the Ink

We size this way, leering at Best Father, alive come music; as losing infinity, captured by omega, seated upon Persian carpets—that gray sentence, yanking at chandeliers, our ceilings punctured by chaos—as sensing lights, blinded with visions, attempting to fathom cut-waves; that grave of warriors, as bled his soul, leaking into mulatto winds—that tier of deaths, that lethal injection, his soul it couldn’t die—as hell his fire, broken at both hearts, floored as insanity’s cousin: our fatal grins, chiseled with omens, at curses to evade our karmas. I’m clutching fists, tugging at grayness, at terrors our cells were paradise—infused with passions, so deep this venom, as one a condom to grit his song. It came with science, such brutal affection, while screaming such vanity—to chisel an arc, bleeding in blueness, that seeping leakage as beige; to love a swan, captured by white gates, grieving black silver, this mixture temporary subjections—as floating a symbol, that tragic mirror, while nurtured by such comforts: our flint to souls, gnawing at grassy mud, chugging by red moons: our pinkish fears, flushed at burgundy veins, that purple he couldn’t touch his life; to fever wings, afloat a teal cloud, struck as lightning that auburn leaf. We size this way, rushing through lyrics, at pains to witness captured beauty: that hostage by love, that promiscuous feather, at stress our hearts that magnum opus; as invocation, that spirit by trees, by affection that piano’s gaze. I saw for culture, as never earned, expecting something royal: that faint debris, at leaks those arcs, while confused this damaged reed; to die an inch, to live a breath, as cleaving to invisible frequencies; where lungs were sore, as wrung our minds, that soul so deep as Texas. We size this way, embedded at cadenzas, our ottomans screaming at pictures—as lived a soul, that cold guitar, or more through tensions that harmonica: encased in traumas; a cymbal to a son; our mother’s hairs filled with smoke—as choked an infant, that milk as liquor, this war an ancient archive. It can’t be gentle, where souls are mangled, so more for harmonizing—that vest of woes, that engine as revving, this track by essence our brains; as peered a legend, by such confusion, her tears to keyboards; as words fumbled, emotions grew, by winds that furnace of symphonies. We size this way, at horrors such reflections, too bold to confess our mirrors: that torn distraction, our savored rice, at shelters this thought by comforts; thus, to perish, running by embrace that portrait that kills. We flung by swamps, this melodic queen, unaware that entrance by forests: our crimson garments; our dozen candles; our collars bleeding brackets: but so infused; as so naked; peered upon by hyenas: that cryptic laughter; that spilt heart; such city darkness: to kiss a leper, aside Bethsaida, falling for crawling as missing our pool; whereat, such brazen tactics, this kiln aflame, leering at textures—as feeling Sibyl, or that snare of light, as more to un-fathom those crooked tales. (I’ve lived as light, imbued with darkness, as abused that swash of waves: as tortured by thought, as living such freedoms, while at essence suspended by seawater; so less to dying, unless to live, at treasures to resurrect).