We
love the straying heart, as confused to blues, attempting to concrete such as
hearts; that perfect person, as flawed his childhood, an allusion by stronger women;
to courage atmosphere, such a dreary soul, made atlas this map of woes. I die
losing death, as afforded gods as driven, to become this flicker that fades;
for love is contagion, that flamboyant gem, our nights promised to pains; to
pass torches, as if for solace, that barrel fraught with agonies; as lived a
soul, exclaiming faith, while forbidden to sanctuaries; this harlot ache, that
man to tears, our handkerchiefs filled with vomit; as deep our devils, infused
by thunder, to have love as purities—that shame by pride, as aloof to regrets,
to fill it simmering something viciously—that lake of furies, that steep algae,
our limbs wrapped in cat-eyes; to find with glory, this tale of devils, while,
nonetheless, reaching for rifting whales. I’ve lost control, as fretting disaster,
a village at predicted volume; where love was surfing, prior to instruction, as
feared those languid cries; where love forbids, this ache of oneness, while fevered to chains those
endless horizons; that walk as lethal, at contention for freedoms, at seasons,
a moment in essence. It comes, my Love—this gear at stripping, where adored was
silence, by chase our moons—to die as peasants, our cemented violence, as such
is rendered effects; that cause to love, as holding by promise, such value
losing its fever; wherewith, are lies, this daily tale, while broiling steaks.
I love a jewel, as frantic our taste, so close by seasoned fairness; as folding
linen, while exchanging pillowcases, staring at something deadly; that fading
away, where voices wail, while feelings become enwombed; this force as driven,
to rejuvenate weekly, while sensing this need for fires. We heard to perish, as
hearing to live, changed by essence this feral falcon; to lose interests, while
seeking interests, afraid that time moves at a snail’s pace: that welkin arc,
effused by feelings, at terrors to sever our mirrors: that lithic person,
accursed but swimming, at terrible lengths to conceal rabidness. It comes with
failures, as, too, successes, at treacheries to exist: that mythic cry, as
assuaged by tides, while peering at emotional blackmail; to see for normal,
this animated abrasion, where said tears become joyful. (But what to equality,
as two realize—this desire to fly freely; where time harbors security, as self
is breathing, cleaving to this inner humor: that mystic strength, those joyous
calms, while, nevertheless, seeking adventures: that dangerous soul, as tugging
emotions, while fulfilling this dread of jadedness: that casual fall, that
eternal smile, while reaching until cache fails: that deep contempt, where
treacheries appear, or more this needs to rejuvenate daily: that caption in
plaques, our memories as propellers, our arcs as restoring beginnings; to opt
for longevity, while sealing off disasters, as two become infectious;
therewith, are joys, this place of self-worth, our nights as ensuing music).
