Silence, Love

Silence the killer. Silence the healer. Silence a twofold hero. (I evaporated, a bit captivated, at length a dead man: a pail of gnats; that straining eye; that plaque screaming alienation—as dreamed a crib, that little girl, as never such reach; that fretting intimacy; that green siren; our needs for physicians: those broken lanterns; those shifty moods; as repeating names: our cosmic vessels, purified in sins, our horrors on repeat: to ask for mercy, our minds as tentacles, while cleaving to treacheries. I saw her eyes, as filled with fear, hiding behind mother; to ask of treason, this song our daughter, to lose his intelligence: forsook to crime, streaming by demons, at mercy to curse self: (that purple ball; that green snake; that fluffy pillow; those new habits; our daughters taught; that man those dreams our screams). It must come, that furious fever, as driven to forgive. I lost a legacy, to gain a fortune, struggling those middle grounds: our cymbals clanging; that violent noise; this vision breaking insanity; to see it shatter, those crawling fragments, our sores too abrasive for concealing: that mystic at woes; that yogi aflight; our terrors seeping into infant souls: as conscious rivers, and oh for eyes, as to water suddenly). It’s pitted deeply, this insidious omen, to remember that tender caress: our children crying, or asking about others, to infuse a child with gorgeous—that achy fire, as tersely distraught, our children calling others, “Father.” It comes as hell, this deep distress, “It’s best he stays away”: as more to needs, while attempting sanity, puffing and passing along our weekend shores: that cyan liquid, to cast his eyes, a bit too confused while he drinks: that song’s excursion, graffiti to our ships, our music traipsing neurotransmitters—to inhale deaths, a cigar for a second, and Hozier for a mood shift. (I’m soon to drift, as imagined our souls, asking that love be told by faces: this ink; this drunken sin; our walls pleading forgiveness: as inner mechanics; that incantation; while wailing through mirrors: our crooked traces; our infant daughters; to have left with ease. It never happened, this whiff called love, while producing, nonetheless: that pale complexion; those reckless eyes; those nails that flesh those yelps—as screaming by mercies, at love but a few, while remembering unto graves: that transmigration, seated a lover’s psyche, while refusing to impress a psych: this maverick soul, peering at terrors, remembering this delicate trek: to tiptoe shadows; or forget to breathe; as, notwithstanding, she tears out, “Breathe”). It was love; it had to be; it had to be gentle: while crying forever, and pausing for laughter, a bit maniacal: those fractured glances; that refusal to get high; our needs to believe in perfection: to see it crumble; our arms so empty; but filled with lovers: if but to life, to rinse our souls, to forgive we ever loved; that cold-dark-earth, at birth a sinner, as we accept doctrine; that place of purgatory, as baptized for love, that sparrow seated with hummingbirds; as more to seeing, this velvet invention, acclaimed for healing: our hopes by lateness; our dreams by fancies; our temperaments as deathly serious: a bit too stern, our wants to appease, our suitors as giving us mad-science.  I must relax, as sinning a coin, flipping as seeing pirates: that deep mystic; that torn sentence; our lives merging—to feel our feelings; to stress through hearts; something so remote our shrills: where love is plaid, and sadly insane, but often to forming dynasties.