Beige Rivers

I see eyes, as plural winds, our arrogance by rites; to wane through forgiveness, seated in temperaments, palming a platinum cross—as beige rivers, fleeing our nostrils, while sneezing a cup of turmoil; that cyan love, as matted to galaxies—those tender afflictions; as knowing confession, to clear by waves, our bones clanging at Ezekiel’s pit: that turquoise blouse; those blasé feelings; as to morph by sudden affections; while tears would reign, some feeling our guts, at rushes to exude normalities: that yellow daisy, as folded so gently, by nights our teal ink. I see passion, as candent souls, flickering by lambent torches: our dye to money; our visions to Monet; that type of shivering to approach true exposure: that wretched song; those cryptic eyes; our dying by rising to fall by glory—if but our souls, meshed but separate, aflame our Cajun fences—where love would give, as all its graves, while planting platinum roses. I felt afar, that distant fire, its texture a sail to science: that deep agony; that trenchant surface; that rumbling fire: to know by pains, this trickle of somberness, at gurneys those whales our flames: if but to live, as perished our love, while speaking, “Ill carry on”: as torrid wings, flipping through cadence, our arcs by risen waves. I’ve sighed that name, at such permanent tortures, to admit our calming senses—or sweltering for scorching, to cherish by imagination, so wild our devilish sights; that type delirium, sectioned as biblical, our pains scraped upon theologies—those beige rivers, that timer ticking, our clocks by grandparent eyes: if but to sing, such deep composition, staring at that porcelain griffin.  (There was terror, such terrible waves, as feeling those heartbeats): so richly astray, trekking our minefields, detaching by decoding our reigns: that futile gesture, as steep illusion, where brains operated at fifty percent: that treasure in time, as near a tumor, painted picture perfectly; where souls would fly, as heavy in irony, peering for pillaging our pride. We know for hearts, as cultic entities, as whispers fomenting conception: if newly born, as fleeing but captured, seeping steeply into silence; that crazed music, as shadowy tides, featured in Agnes: as but a tale, so treacherous our rites, to lose by glance that hectic fever; but life to newness, evolved but pitted, by rescue our bodies as islands of quicksand.