We
tread spaces, alarmed by blankness, that vacuum of thisness; to live by nothing, this groundless existence, pledging
atypical allegiance; to hear for swans, this ache to breathe, while infused
that subtle affection; where trenches are muddy, as exposed to mire, a fleet of
adults playing pretend; to call us morbid, for taking issue, at terrors to know
truths. I’m a fathom deep, that inner
hospital, agaze by a child; that silent song, as reincarnated, by means we can’t
explain; that cyan message, as turquoise blues, where love was a jaded story;
to flit by gravel, that glacier that breath, accused by grandmother; as love
vanished, headed to Malibu, beyond that weary myth. We attract essence, so pure
a shadow, as invested in visions; that reign of woes, by tears made flint, as
coming to wander—that feral valley, aside our myrtle drapes, accused of
something candid; that mystic wand, those brown eyes, that tender extension; to
crawl by flights, as flights to trekking, as kissed this invisible touch; to
give by aches, this horrible legacy, as so much is unexplained: that broken
allegiance; our perfect mothers; this story of a lost soul. It seems so
simple—as endorsed time for again, while preventing one from thinking clearly.
It comes through engines, that dearth of information, as inculcated into
submission: that cryptic yawn; that awkward gaze; that second as repeating
vocals; where days are young, those precocious winds, aflame a fire of
meadows—as running wildly, an eagle to clouds, a lemur to fledglings. I wait in
series, flipping through minutia, at wonders about those telling tales;
whereat, are swans, fleeing poodles that portrait a mother’s caress—as struck
by lights, this flippant pendulum, where messages remain unsounded; while
forbidden to breathe, this lake of sea-trees, or more this whale of deserts—we
fly as angels, adrift burgundy waves, afflux this wrath of silence: our cadence
rich; our passions spackled; our allegiance to soaring; as tucked in faith, so
young to know violence, while one exchanges values. I ask as given, this face
of virtues, surrendering so much to exist: that delicate flower; that woman as
wining; this music floating through galaxies; as sheer examples, to exhaust our
morals, while inflaming our swans: that cryptic eye; those cultic airs; that
dripping into cypress: if kissed a daisy, as born a lily, at tears this cobra’s
inclinations; where nights are rough, that tossing churn, running through
dreams as cheetahs; whereby, are aches, our powers drained, this feeling of
deep exhaustion; to flee by storms, awakened to ritual, perchance to advance
into solace; this telic space, adrift for moons, as opposed to swollen eyes. I
aim to instruct, even to fly, aside a delicate fuel: this brimming star, that
floating mug, our tables engulfed by wretchedness; while still to breathe, as
electric as fusions, spaced as afar a spectacular voyage; to love a swan,
despite conditions, aloft a gaze.
