We
try so hard, fumbling addictions, transferring one for another; that inner
spaceship, those bulbous eyes, that woman calming her instincts. I feel for
lost, such certainty through years, at lioness for comforts; that outer
wizardry, that doll my face, our pins poking his arch; to capture alchemy, our
gold as pleated, our woes as cheated; where daughters writhe, seated in velvet
blues, probing a mother’s countenance: that augury of tales, a snail through
healings, at pace this psych a bit beyond wise. I’ll die wanting, this craving
of cannibals, at punctures to conjure our Ghost: this verse by runes, our
crooning sensations, our cygnet at rails trekking deserted tracks: if but to
sing, this plethora of grassland, peering at that inner knight; as forgiven
that sin, where squirrels nurse a tender spine: if but as sought, this mixture
of terrors, while at love this mental Smith; where courage is blank, as bold
our torrents, a handkerchief to ruby eyes; to fill a spell, this woman so
invented, as scraping herself from dust—those particle roads, as seasoned at
grace, peering into black magic; while balms to virtue, at course with queens,
a bit too evolved for sincere broaching(s): that mystical ache; our black art
trainings; this music a bit too performed; but hell to life, as hell to
proprieties, while admiring, maintaining mental persuasions—this vest of tiles,
our faces depicted, our music as stippled in Braille: if but to breathe, this
woman at tears, abroad this scope of scales; where father grieves, as mothers
dance, if but to maintenance that lit’d nucleus: our valued truths, amused but
failing, as one attempts a perfect answer: this vat to brains, to become
immortal, while our worlds are oblivious. It comes to heart, this swan of
mimics, at serious strides to exist; where arts are vivid, while hells are
livid, indeed, to venture a daisy. I search for sureness, while bleeding
sureness, at terrors to arrive at sureness: our dreamy eyes, that deepness as
swarming, if but to muse by distance this diamond. It should be grace, this
mistaken affinity, while at tears to capture while letting go; so life to
musing, such as nonphysical, approaching life with pliers: that mystical grin,
those shifting eyes, by measure as losing silent disposition: that myth of
love, at touch a clove, at mirrors a mind; or more afloat, a passing whim, by
far too secluded for attraction.
