Seeing Mirrors

I observe:

that sax to souls dying; that axe to hearts crying; our casual goodbyes: so floored by justice, afflux a miracle, charmed by panic’s illusions; to flannel affections, knees to snow, as fettered but a dream; that mischief Tao, abandoned to deaths, as witnessed a grieving woodlands. I heard breath, by honors for noble, so cold by addictions—while sinning souls, as maladjusted, bending for churning each gesture: that nite to nails; that hell to chivalry; that affection as muddy—as censored blues, accused of treacheries, filtered by ontic tapestries: that slothful moon; that decade of tears; our penalties reversed with chimes.

We live this day, contracted by senses, fevered at love: to hemlock confessions; but merely a vision—so coarse his grave: that woman flying; that grin sinning; our hereabouts as deadly: our cultured fears—so dreary a song, as sung his deepest convictions; our bawling tenures; our rabid sopranos; our trapeze he lifted—to carry inches, by charges vicious, presumed as humans; where love cried, as retreating madness, composing by lights an opus: that torn influence; to hold by cadence, our seconds to slip, gripping at reaching our feather’s blood; to which, we died, abrasive baritones, those diamonds a palm our mirrors.  (I’ve disappeared, speaking by vogue, as tender for slain that red river; to curse genetics, as spent for dying, our fleeces grumbling psychotics): that rough affection, as novitiate vultures, our whereabouts to prisons—as inner space, that shifting with drums, affected as living symbols: if sinning his life, as crunched his soul—that woman a sight unseen—to gaze at persons, while so removed, perfected, seeking salvations—those multiple layers, as crazed as fires, in-scripted by convergence: such frantic beauty, but lost for language, pledging never to feel us—that fair event, as against normalities, at fevers for ruins: our dying phoenix; our decoded sphinx; that something missing—as seeking solaces, those foreign dreams; our casualties embedded in membranes; where ushers as pallbearers grieve in tandem, watching as demons tear our souls asunder: that half us, afloat by grounds, to witness our reflections—as rebating lives, this us through winds, that change in fires—to confess by mesh, this driving currency, at hells divested that rising prison; while courted a vision, a den of lounges, a trestle of memoirs: this cave as familiar; our symphonies knitting; our days at threshing, forever: if sung a dirge, our lamentation, those arms to effacements—to rev engines, thrusting by arts, that churn for bodies to disappear; where pains grew, our raptures to death, our petit attraction as sacrificed: those tears as tissue, our chocolate as slates; our miracles befuddling mirrors; where passion tells, those tales of mothers, those candent islands; to live by arms, as chosen  a soul, to love as monsters: that lambent kiss; that fiery fierceness; as love by lovers unto ecstasy. It gets that way, convinced while convicted, our armor for our affection: that brimming soul; as warm as sunlight; in turn our chemistry—our fatal injection, to give as dying, encased in perfected fantasies—as torn admirations, to engrave that face, as upon a dozen leaves; where Santa was cruel, as fate was gentle, while tender that sudden restructure; so fly as sewn, our seams to heavens, infused by something nearby.       

I’m gnawing cages, something as breaking, something as dying; to live adjusted, but clearly ruined, abandoned to survival: that sinning soul, by arts as flustered, repenting by habit—this inner mind, those cagey attributes, this lifelong sentence: if but our souls, as swinging infinities, accustomed to that wicked, frustrated, but defensive love; where pain is growth, as bearing a miracle, at beige rivers: that inverted sun, while pure to darkness, our mothers flying—as grieving silence, as speaking through trepidations, as rebuilding our broken hearts.  (I’m somewhere, this fleeing space, as sung a song, at memories to embrace beauty: that cautious dream; that fervent vessel; our days at fierceness; for mother died, to teach by lessons, this given tear: to hold her palm; to skip at joys; to favor that devious art; where love is bold, to ask those questions, as participating in adventures: that time to death; our mother’s kiss; while afforded a hidden slight; but aches to winds, as mothers again, to fly with such compassion: that angry soul; that feminist’s voice, that womanist’s heart; to know his theft, that burning field, as to know his lies).  I’ll see her forever, embedded in dreams, as sought to structure his soul.