We
shadow charms, at strengths to live, afforded one last joy: those beige dreams,
at hassles to remember, but a castle at gray skies: those days at whispers;
that eerie nudge; that hope by evidence unseen…that uneasy feeling, curious to
visions, alive a breath’s projection…that nurtured swan, that spiral of
emotions, to harness but one. I sit in blankness—this courage of humans, barely
a sleepwalker: to flicker channels; to ignore music; while every gesture is
meditated—that space in souls, reaching for pulling, alarmed by subtle
insights…as festered a light, to box a fuse, where swans afford one last joy:
while birds chirp; raccoons pillage; our neighbors erecting shrines…an album
skips, a closet is nosy, while images elapse a forty year run; our purple
hearts; our maroon visions; that fascination with opera…whereat, are scars,
those horrid realities, this feeling by etches of enchantments. I see a song,
plus, melic voices, adrift a telic guitar; to have but love, at rotation for
years, to soon nod in sorrows…whereto, this cadent rhythm, this form of physics,
that asymmetrical psyche: our growing swan, afloat a miracle, loved for given
purpose…to ravish altruism, that vague assortment, by humans something foreign.
There’s bone of fire, at rapture a tender dove, where swans flourish by
trances: as deep concentration, to rummage brains, to peak by currents; while
torn a heartbeat, at tortures that feeling, at treasures that intensity…that
inner soprano, our make-believe, as possessing such force; to grip lightning,
that flickering majesty, those rooms melting—as fallen reality, to catch us by
images, while we sink into thunder…by arts a miracle, our seasons at sessions,
arising by charms…that steady development; those rash comparisons; that feeling
by surges; to invest in mirrors, at pressures to balance, avoiding
catastrophes: that pond through veins, as inhaling oxygen, if but that sight
through emptiness. We worship images, admonished as souls, searching that inner
home: those casual thoughts; those firm convictions; as slanted by
grayness…that mental movie; those repeated lines; our treasures through
fantasies…as convinced souls, while revved an engine, fighting by force feral
omens…that drifting essence, as tugged afar, moving with grace: by visions our
terrors; by illusions our joys; by realities our conundrums. But oh for
love—our mothers’ hearts, that hat tilted in our favor: that turquoise smile;
that acoustic battle; that deep convergence: by credence a miracle; by voice a
promise; by presence a queen; where life is structured, amidst such chaos,
while daughters’ judge incessantly…that falling river, as trickled afar, afield
an inner orchard: as fruit spiders; as plum seeds; such rich nectar—to fly by
faces, while sitting abed, with such curious admiration.
