It
becomes debris, our ashes to eyes, our cries to zenith; upon high a castle,
that deep inversion, as winnowed nearby: that lake of fire, that inner bathing,
this death above sanity: as lived Confucius, as died Sun Tzu, such by alchemic
miracles: so far an island, fraught by undergrowth, at deliberate tales: that
inner woman, that mental man, our lines abbreviated. It becomes fire, that
wispy feeling, agaze’d by personal beauty: that cultic saboteur, as mere a thought,
cleaving to tangible lights: as purposed a gem, to drive a soul, as frantic as
heartbeats: that inner legion, at forces a caricature, up until those facial
glaciers; to sing of anodyne, a wound to a ladybug, by leakage to a
hummingbird: those abstract cries, as seething humans, while a theologian wrangles:
afar a sun; so near a tear; our nibs fraught by credulity: if be it the time,
alive, so far a miracle—our souls at catapults; our dreams at shredded sheets;
our silken seams at old memories; therewith, a scream, our inner anthologies,
our brains with Plato; albeit, at frames, those cages bleeding, our hurling
forbidden cries—as sung a castle, to fall a soul, as becoming that voyage: our
amazing graces, as becoming this glare, by ceremony an empire. I love a swan,
this feeling of genes, as fraught with negligence: that out-wrung clothe; that
den of cubs; this potential empress: to widen our eyes, if be it this fire, to
kill mediocrity: this passing of negligence, as seated in complaisance, our
energies waning; to have such vision, as Native Americans, a bit particular our
habits: if sung a dream, as realized screams, purposed by fantastic feelings;
whereat, are legacies, this fumigated mind, this chasing by something long
gone; as swans morph, those caps and gowns, by glance a feral god—adrift by
passions, that rich elevation, to rouse an inner goddess: that music wailing;
as symbols to tread; that delicate tiptoeing: Our beautiful swan, alert and
flying, a flutter at a given second; to know our dreams, this catcher of
feelings, those loaded bases—to strike with action, as clearly out-the-park,
while legends form in salvations: this mind of gods; this soul of men; that
mint to freshen his legacy. (I speak to eyes; that gravid soul; as falling by
epiphany: those welkin tears; to feel those weeds; to know we die: as born
living, awaiting our journeys, by ships a fleet of telescopes: to witness
horizon, as remembering love, while wrestling as a theologian: that frantic
anger; those flailing eyes; this present haunting; as passing through portals;
at wars with self; to treasure a sublime rhythm: that liquid feeling, adrift a
transmitter, enamored by legacies: that engraved woman, the heart of his struggles,
as becoming short tempered; while pleading forgiveness, to give forgiveness, if
we channel those particular warrants; indeed, a soul, by flames a friend, as we
steep into furnace-fires; where mother chimes, as dying to damage, at visits
where drugs are fluent): but hells to passions, while heavens to passions,
while life to paradox: if but to breathe; to release those ghosts; to venture
by fireplace our falling castles; as becoming oneness, this vest of shivers, those textures abrasive with
language; as thereupon, such laudable tribulation, those sun-skied eyes
wrestling forgiveness: as seething they wait; a smidgen of disappearance; that
sparkle, that pivot axis; whereto, this person we love, recruiting our habits,
while grandparents churn—that river of graves, as shadowed our lives, a bit too
precious to die: that immortal claim; that rivulet of passions; this fusion of
breaths: at fires our dreams, and so selfish our screams, at turns through
shivers alert to majesty: that deep maze, those labyrinth skies, to weep as
souls by karma. (I plead by arcs, this wealth of captures, to abate such
wretched damage; where smaze flickers, as souls disappear, our archery missing
its target: as be it in life, those crooked fevers, as fraught with
embarrassment; but best to live, as clearing debris, by virtue a lamb; as
opposed to frying, a precious entity, accused by chases of one’s actions: that
silent killer; to face by mirrors; at deep the dusks of Pneuma),
