Is
it Rihanna or Arlissa or Hannah this cannibal's cravings? (I live it lividly, as
cautious as cheetahs, amused so deeply—this feral queen, at love an ache, while
composed a Victorian warrior—where eyes close, as noses bleed, this fever at
torture our screams). I mourn a swan, as feeling contentions, by waves
searching for clarity; to live it lividly, at bars by sentences, at scars by
fences; this plural atmosphere, skipping for crawling, our music a tare
gothic—to expand or expatiate, while grieving for clearance; that awful
killing, our daughters to deserts, while attempting to shake vengeance: this
rapturous awe; so explosive as slaves; while courting this exotic dream: our
mothers to purgatory; our fathers at prisons; our notions of justice a torture
one-sighted: that myopic existence, where secrets kill courage, this feeling
aching his fragile bones. I heard a feeling, as echoed a castle, where such as
death became beauty: that rigid perspective, as willing to forgive, while days
became this tit-for-tat: that leopard as spotted; that lion as roaring; our
owls as confessing they saw infinity: that cagey dance, to chance her heart,
while affronted for claiming communion; or more that dread, as desiring desire,
while at wakes professing our loses. It comes with vengeance, this miracle of
legends, while wishing we’d converse but a second in courtyards—this feral
backlash, to have said too much, while losing at graces a treasured soul: this
furious soldier, set at stations, while floored to ceilings at blind bats. I
love a swan, this welkin web, as seething for something akin to justice; this
mix of races, our faces forbidden, this needs to mix with like minds; else, to
tortures, this addict in a vacuum, our grandfathers oblivious to such richness:
that deep confliction, as feeling abandoned, at men’s throats prior to
confessions; to live as torn, while graves are bleeding, this table an affair
for culture: that woman dying; those engrained beliefs; this fix to exist
outside a mixed box. I must retreat, peering at a gorgeous swan, a tare to
brains trying to fix destiny. (My dearest swan; remember The Matrix, while adjusting through promises; for this is life, to
live or die, as dying to live; where arts are gray, while actions are vivid,
insomuch, as, nevertheless! This dream
as driven; our ashes as rising; our lambs as universal: to grip by arcs, this
wealth of obedience, while chiseling a perfect façade. I want to lie, but this
is life, these faking lights until they become real. We do it to live, in this
tiny world, meeting our faces time and again. We do it to exist, where brains
are epitomes—of something that may not be at full fruition; so more to cadence,
shifting through pyramids, at terrors those Hieroglyphs).
