While
love would live, that breezy feeling, at once, asunder such magic: that inward
chant, as danced our souls, by myths something touching our screams. Such
elusive, as patently perfect, our emotional slavery; by generational curses,
this woebegone, our family forgiving memories—while drawing expressions, as
read his life, that struggle for rapturous eyes: that incantation; that welkin
liturgy; our crawling by fires to embrace our calm. We tread meadows, at flux
with illusions, becoming as born that mystic by sadness: that ache as churning;
our years at standby; or easy a touch meaning naught: that spin by lights; that
jealousy terror; our dreams at three a.m.
While
love would vanish, our patience vamp, such voltic abandonment; as embraced
newly, to have but fantasies, our islands invading cities: that caressed
memoir, those Siamese eyes, our beige seeping into our valleys—as if to perish,
that awakened empathy, while flippant, a fist, a mirage; while gnawing plastic,
steeped in soil, our oceans by oil spills: that achy heart, as flaming temples,
aloof by measures to succeed; as drawn a caricature, drenched in low whispers,
raving by silence our rising glory; albeit, a dream, at deep another’s reach,
we rapture by lightning.
