Is
the brain at oneness with its heart? Are they detached? Do they operate in
unison? If so: Does the heart take the lead, or does the brain take the lead?
These are timeless questions, without much need to marvel, but investigation,
that interior sphere, may awaken a powerful conclusion.
I’ve
adored love, those khaki brown eyes, that sassy gait, our fevers as inborn; to
yearn by eternity, as perished by births, alive our church-house gardens; that
plural invention, while born to legacies, forever a peach uneasy: if died our
current, to live our lives, I’d oblige miserably; but this is traffic, our
classifications, while abased by honors; such function beheld, this friend of
winning, our sins as venial pearls. I’ve adored love, that stalwart
countenance, those analytical fingers; as wiser than I, afforded those quirks,
far closer to shadows than wine; our beating brains, thrumming insanity, this
voiceless sensation; as riveting passions, by oceans an opus, our imperfect
sky-terrors—to adore love, our fanes our agendas, our severed naivety: that
fuel that died; that inner screenplay; our firewood at rhythm those glints;
while born such spirit, as looking so lively, by traces of miseries; that
captive gaze, at smiles’ reluctance, a bit of treasures afloat at sorrows;
insomuch, as breath, that melodic wave, as chiseled such awkward perfection; to
fetter disdain, or even for love, that fettled obligation; but adored love,
that deep hypnoses, at our shinning souls—to glisten as masks, this wanton of
more, to unmask by fevers: that mental soulquake, as surreal insights, at
rituals those epiphanies. I’ve adored
love, seated at muddy swamps, amused those argent clouds—impressed with ghosts,
those tentacles our nights, that genteel curse: our neural ecstasy, that opalescent
scream, our seaquakes so rich those aches: if channeled forgiveness, to die
this want, as lacking in character—some flaw to cherish, our effulgent dreams,
enflamed by love while stargazing. I’ve adored love, abated at moments, while
infused by sudden pash; this world we live, while holding hostages, ashamed
that Love is human. I’d forfeit us, if love would perish, as admitted such
crying lies: our fairytales; this shifty paradise; such is agony those intense
moments: our sky-lamps, as painting letters, as read our vignettes: those palms
from clouds, as reaching our brows, to afflict with sickness such love: those
notarized spells, aflame as wildfire, by seconds that rigorous ensoulment;
where love is needed, this want of flying, at patience those stripes of sorrow:
that deep anger, to channel our brains, while infused our phoenix music. I’ve
adored love, this dreamlike adventure, building our dreamcatcher: that
heart-relic, allergic with time, while afforded a deep realization; to want
such vines, as forfeiting fruits, while never this light as love. We fever this
night, such precious seduction, at rendezvous with spirits: our novel hearts,
as never given, at least, at full capacity; to want amore, as to wreck our
village, by twine to ravel such affections; that inner pavilion, at pace with
souls, peering at inverted bodies; this chase of hearts, aspark a flame,
quilted by measures of stability: our Roman eyes; our Grecian loins; this
Frenchmen praising women: those lurid arguments; while chasing seraphim(s); our
opus a nib by our skulls; as crying mercies, at needs a parasol, allergic to
such high prestige: this black sheep, a bit to pities, such as history
laughing. I’ve adored love, this gallery of feelings, while rocking gently: our
gripping guts, this offhand adventure, such beauty at arts this voyage; where
love was sought, afore thought was pressured, while believing in love prior to
logic: our fair logistics, as a bit unraveled, to wish upon life such
hastiness: our skylight spheres, crooning softly, at measures to have forgotten
our legacies.
We
know its lifespan when it fails to appear. At that juncture we wonder about
wholeness.
