I’m
agaze’d by silhouettes, this partial shadow, such interior inversion. I’ve
lived to soar, nibbling clovers, wishing upon a dream. I tremble, that event in
lives, trespassing tender memories: this edgy fire, flickering blue flames,
weeping by a perfect countenance. It was life to die, afflicted a biblic war,
to whisper at self, “Courage.” Our daughter’s shame, engraved in hopes, while
to witness this hiding of nothing. I’ve lived a curse, gnawing at pillars, a
halo upon sewers; to read closely, our lowly lives, our mentals rapt’d in
cobwebs. (So far to learn, while craving that image, such projections to perish
softly: such visions of converse, those two judging distantly, as far removed
from those trebled dregs: our shojis dying; while to morph a monster; such
beauty destroying his heart: as subtle instructions; or wild deer; our murals
depicting such majesty. I’ve lived in dungeons, trekking a series of laps,
spared by this woman’s cadence; to harvest this life, unknown to mirrors, to
capture a glimpse as rapture disappears. I mimic magic—this physic of unrest, a
bit too fragile that analyses—where mother wept, this return of fury,
elsewhere, a nonchalant savage; to miss he couldn’t earn, as learned his life,
while churning in grayness: that vulnerable memoir; this losing of texture;
that place too insecure to venture). I’ve captured a feeling, while torn a
warrior—too many loses to calculate darkness; that sightless scarecrow, fraught
by pigeon dung, this replica of soreness—our orange existence, as beige a
scream, while at wires to balance as trapeze artists: our mothers weaning; our
fathers at patience; our siblings feeling peeved: if but to dance, that
fragrant feeling, as more to yearn eternally. I felt our tempo, so disturbed
our lives, while healing breeds a sense of distance: our projected inheritance;
our torrent pressures; as to capture what we must defend; for vultures watch,
as carving concrete, our minds treading pavement: our meters beeping; our
ripples fluttering; our admiration becoming a silent prison; to want forever,
as giving infinity, while to reap a sanction of turmoil: that sad poet,
attempting to alter cadence, our wives at tears our missives; to share this
glass, our hours fading, our austere milieus becoming claustrophobic—that
kindred garden, unspent by sorrow—that deep rescue seeking its outlet—where
courage is verdant, as, too, our prison—by which, we dream, at such maniacal
terrors, seated in bubble-bath laughter. I cleat’d lowly, at tears for
nonsense, this thing of feeling damnation; at songs to perish while sensing
rightness, a bit aloof to losing his music; as, nonetheless, this music of
swans, fumbling through Trixie, at membrance that fretful lovelight; by which,
was trauma, as beginning in sorrows, while to grip for life something forsaking
itself: (Our faithful battles: our saliva to wounds; while never such ecstatic
nectar); our harrowing scars, at flux to peel a scab, peering at twilight eyes;
that rich fuel, to abandon fear, while at once, a steadfast whisper: that
brilliant heart; that twinkling arc; that moment of membrance; insofar, as
love, this channel we drain, while at flux to capture ecstasy. (At war to
cascade; at hate to forgive; at terrors this path of theologians…to feel
objectivity, while appearing with subjectivity, this torture as bending
scientific truths; to gallop forever, as proving his worth, too far a soul that
churns). I’ll enter nightfall, screaming at night-walls, scraping by texture
that beaming azure: our burning threshing; those topaz wails; our sleep to
wolves brimming in tyrannies: if but to live, a soul so close, while falling
upwards.
