There’s
affections, our treasured Beloved, this seeping music a caveat; that fettled
enigma, this phoenix of dreams, that abrupt goodbye; to chase a storm, pleading
forgiveness, to meet with Satan: our surreal captures; our wings grieving; this
sound of words: as coursed a fever, aloft by terrors, chasing for falling and
bawling and wailing affixed to injustice; as eyes soar, our cores to treachery,
our tendencies delphic survival: oh for imprints, this angelic monster, by
cores a vixen: our permeated nights; a volt at three a.m., our cellos to
insanity; as mad soldiers, rummaging gods—so saintly our despair; at lengths
but heinous, to forgive but forgotten, as laconic and terse that instance
expression; to die by prisons, at violins, but a casualty of love: those shorn
ambitions; those sagic eyes; that temple by sufferings; as gaining waves, for
rich depression, while perfect stings of glory: our deep refusals, as immortal
passions, along this path of silence. I met exhaustion, but flux a signal, by
cranes a nightmare; to abandon souls, while coaching spirits, this vest too
mysterious; to catch us dreaming, that interval of cadence, our mothers
twinkling voodoo. It comes as aches, this pagan adventure, at terrors our
destinies: to gambol by hearts, while vexed to brains, as instilled a
catastrophe—that inner well, as swelling with dangers, to reach by voice at
nakedness; those flowing rivers, encased in stomachs, our days to vomit; for
feelings rise, as aloof to concrete, while a bit too abstract; where love would
wander, as one unraveled, fleeing for flying into images. I loved an eagle, to
pardon her soul—so controlled by permanence; to live by lies, at suspicion of
nights, affixed to mother’s turmoil: a man with voices, as stifled and abused,
if be it left for vultures; but seasoned he died, that pure resurrection, as
enlove with mirrors: this ache as chilly; this fever as showers; our rain as
survival: oh for ripples, this rivet of rills, this freshet of streams—as
casing passions, to growl by flowers, at pace with algae: our inner whispers,
as tugging reality, to believe in something un-vetted: this cryptic scar, as
bleeding that name, while exhausted and breeding: if but to life, that inner
switch, to render it off and still flickers a star: that lipish gesture; those
toppling verbs; that portrait as impasto—as love curdles, this coddling of
vines, our measures as abandoned. I met a fever, as composed as Gandhi,
circling membranes; where justice fell, as giving to ghosts, our static motion;
as deep an atom, attended in molecules, a voice to bio-ecstasies. I sense a
genius, by virtue a daymare, at tears and frantic that contra-pose; as
luminosity, that billion dollar word, while pointing to participation; as
loving ideals, as captured by morals, as dying this width of intervals: that
reeling season; those stippled emotions; this shifting as permanence; where
spectrums bend, as shivering particles, to admit this ends of time.
