Such
as miracles; such as love; such those glass harmonicas: that kantele afar,
those mystic swans, this register as newly adrift: while dying a kora, at
treasures our arcs, aflame sarcoline: if be it justice, I’ll trace a palm,
flooded with wenge; as music grows, so sour the tragedy, so blank our
reasoning; at grandfather’s steps, where grandmother heard, as supporting a
cadent myth. We die at times, cleaving to colors, aborted by means of
casualties: that fulvous assertion; that amaranth hope; those diamonds by eyes
of our swan. I realize hate, as to live broken shoulders, while alert to
contagion: our friends smiling; our footing of bills; our friends laughing. It
comes with pain, this helmet of grief, this breastplate of God; insomuch, to
perish, ashamed by mirrors, peering at ceramic activities: that Spartan wit;
that Grecian arc; our African tribes; as tribal a soul, peering at white gold,
attempting to abolish those differences; such Annunaki pride, at wars to feel
good, while fretting a fist full of pills: that gravid feeling; as killings to
souls; while caressing an innocent toddler; as mother’s eyes, or father’s skin,
so coarse this music within; as crying swans, at Danish empires, while afforded
this Iris dynasty. It’s rumination, according to psychs, so distant this
obvious tragedy; as partial to wounds, afforded one tear, while hankering over
formalities; this windfall travesty, as invented a phoenix, by aches a bit too
resilient: as too, a bit cold, this wintry endeavor, expecting of others this
expectation of self: a bit of honesty; a touch of love; this flagrant
compassion; to perish a swan, at fingers to feel, while at love a taste of
dolor. We could to live, as friends in armor, at tears to escape home-life;
where songs induce waves, while waves induce thoughts, where such wafts by chi:
this manikin city, so lambently downcast, as seeking gloomy adventures: that
woman’s heart, so scarred a dream, as mirrors pardon a series of contentions.
It comes to deaths, our sublime psychs, at terrors to see the mixture; but ever
that journey, at courses to breathe, as heavy as sky-cranes; this shift of
arcs, our explosive swans, this rapture as beatific: that long deliberants;
that fission of theories; this address falling astray; where Precious watches,
at wars with thoughts, filtered through by introjects: this killing alchemy;
our daydreams asunder; our professors deep at analyses; where priests are
kneeling, while nuns are praying, as to induce a chest-fire: our mystic arks;
our mystic scars; that slant we invest by souls. I love a swan; this nib
bleeding, our souls merging; as present a touch, while falling a pit, a bit
torn over the last decade; where this is existence, our human condition,
notwithstanding, our seconds by joyous waves. It soon returns, as seeking out
persons, for this world by mirrors; as amulet halos, or necklace raptures, at
terrors to invent a subtle clearance: that cadence living; our pains soaring;
our eyes to water unbeknownst to reason: those picturesque visions; that
pictureless friend; our yogic flights into Tai Chi; to end at love, this music
your arc, as more than a conqueror and more than a human and stronger than
sorrow.
