Our
sugarcane silence, at travels seated, accustomed as myriad of faces; to know by
name, a soul's legacy, as baseborn gems; to catch by silence, this frequent
ache, while love as feeling anxious: our grandeur ablaze, this deacon a maze,
this priest at travesties: our outer-world-countries, as never such holiness,
as never such poverty. Our sins with mother; our tragedies with father; our
souls palming puddles: that silent fire; that whoosh from hearts; that mental
sky-cuff. I’m grounded groundless; or founded foundless; as heavy to heaviness:
that locked gate, as wrenching his mind, at tales a mirror he must trust: those
psychic eyes; that African gene; our European flames; where granny lingers,
flipping through pages, and jotting down silences: this achy river, as carried
our roses, by flux a series of cant’s: our
rainbow dice; those forbidden colors; our chases to sprinting music; as lived a
giant, infused with ether, at broken seasons came love; where sin was Chevys,
that revving explosion, by pedals clearing over valleys—that tiny sheep, but a
terrible man, but a selfish fool; to drift and dance, shifting a transmission,
feeling that country wave: that muddy blouse; that perfect halo; this obsession
with lowliness; as lived in times, our oppressive laws, while lowly is
separated by differences. Its profound silence, at walking wakes, wiggling for
crawling our pits; that cryptic agency, to remember tomorrow, as forgetting
today: our sores to skies; our daughters adrift; our mothers by all means. Its
reckless loudness, pushed into wells, while taken for silence: our rubric
souls; our perfect perfections; while to have balanced for years; that inner gut,
that mobile feeling, our dreams to wings.
Day II
By
inner eagerness, that mental oasis, that fair maiden; our physical bodies, as
pretzels and petals, our personalities merging: wherefore, to glisten fates,
affixed to tragedies, alarmed by goodness;
that cannon terror; those soft expressions; wherefrom, this edgy heart; to
soar forever, as purified souls, waxing and waning through vineyards: those
patient nymphs; that pond of mermaids; our incarnated Quixote—as shivering
times, pitted in glitter, awaiting travesty: our shoreless joys; our sureless
woes; our creativities as lives: for evils
or goods, our shifting oceans, by
methods prone to control—as stationed our weather, or riven in klesha, by an
unmoved mover—while seated as static,
our bodies in motion, while our mover
is liquid: that rising wall; our cycles of bliss; if but for fire we invade
hell: those twelve gates; that seventh heaven; such as fixities disrupted: by
casual glance; to imbue a garden; while touch a tender negligence.
Something’s
amiss, as drifting downstream, a Buddhist carrying a swan; this mythic music,
as charmed our lives, while unfledged seeking feathers: our sacred garments;
our steep calligraphy; our art as infusing a dynasty: those semi-prayers, as
radiant chants, our quasi-correlations; to sense by silence, this welkin gulf,
alert by midsummer; where something’s amiss, this shadowy maze, as unborn
tragedy: that curse as lived, that tender sky-tome, our atlas askew; where life
is silence, our brooch to rivers, as yanked by soil something believed: our
nautical souls; alas, we live; whereat, are myriads of feathers: that beaming
tiara; our mental allegories; our spiritual citadels: united as rising; at
terrible wells our artificers; by signs this closeness with souls.
