I
hear your essence, screaming but nonchalantly, at perils to exist our brains;
this lavish music, at mercy such love, while stressing a series of goblins. I
saw for faces, at chase an image, slanted by associations: that feral fence;
those trenchant wells; our emotions to guillotines; insomuch, as thoughts, to
conjure ecstasy, pouring into concrete: this barreling fever, as challenged his
grays, at pace to adventure his myths; where mother cries, as warning about
pits, our daughters pleading our existence: that achy passion; our lambent
sessions; those moments gripped in anxieties; wherewith, those arms, that shift
in silence, or sudden a volt by meditations; thereto, a dream, to become
enraptured, while encased in visions: that long trail; that sea of violence;
that mixture of personalities: as feeling beauty, while engrossed in others,
this song sacrifices souls. I must confess, this physical terror, while
enchanted that mystic chandelier; at terrible textures, your frightening
powers, while becoming deathly aloof: that attic battle, as cattle our
feelings, this running by voice to capture sorrows; for love was adverse, an
inverted kindness, while deep for life at admirations; to sing softly, this
method of scars, while afforded this achy silence; as becoming surgery, that
inner cadence, to break with sanity’s reach: that falling moon; our sun to
music; our stars as sullen harbingers—to feel at energies, that month of
infusion, while becoming intimidated; to vet through feelings, this measured
insecurity, whereby, one retreats. (I’m picking portraits, that place in
brains, removing Love from her pedestal: our torn gardens; our flowing petals;
our gardenias shedding tears; therewith, are scars, this welling upheaval, for
years forged impressions: this want for irony; this tale of souls; our passions
at breaths our retrievals; to find our mirrors, buried in seaweed, as to
unravel furious imageries: that sailing flute; those mystical organs; our
countries as internal wizardries; where love could live, if but for sacrifice,
if but a hundred years younger: that space in time; as filled with statues; aloof
to resistance: that inner soul; that outer spirit; at once, to invade our
silent sanctums).
