I
rewind, Love—this feral soul, composed, peering at disorder—as chaotic bliss,
or torture by measures, affixed to seeing infusions;
to meet by grace, our mothers acquiescing, if but that purple passion; our
years as doves, to morph into centaurs, our heads as plural dragons: if but he
sung, that perfect verse, to erase those truths churned; but this is life, our
existential, chasing for running by escapes our condition; where fathers guzzle, or gorge red meats, about our
hearts fleeing pressures; those facial tissues, while refusing such smiles, by
control where control is livid; that achy gesture, that sharp wit, this ‘thing’
concerning reflections; as born to die, or dying while born, our effacements
prior to wombs—that ‘thing’ promised, as kissed through leviathan, at terrors
to haunt our glossy temples—those eyes of dungeons, as torn by miracles, to ask
if love is as grand as concealments: those pouty browns, or freshet blues, by
chase to ponder a hazel dream—while captured by beige, those treasures as
bleeding, where mothers sit in cryptic silence. I knew a dream, to forfeit a
dream, while becoming intimate with delusions; those life-giving forces, as
wielding a legacy, our ventures guarded by hell-hounds: if be it graces, to
refuse treachery, I’ll remain as silent as spiders: that face we adore, as
painting that mirror, to feel by flame a reason to admire: if but to chance;
our chances to dreams; our visions so warm they waft by spirits; to love at
tears, while pleading forgiveness, while one reasons within self; this mercy of
captures, as exiled dearly, while to escape by (ostrich refusals): those times
to measurements; our women to perfections; this ‘thing’ in souls wrestling for
dominance: if told to brains, as rejecting such premises, while one works for
such riches: that bland grin; those feelings by disdain; to realize that one
isn’t cherished by every soul; this place of passions, as studied our lives, to
become this countenance that offends myriads; that sequenced chase, to arrive
in parts, while others fail to see their reflections; as chasing forever, that
‘thing’ we have become, a bit side-swiped by that particular evil; as doing
time, writhing in thoughts, skiing by silence that person’s venom. It comes
with chimes, this place of fires, as one chasing their innocence; as,
nevertheless, we pause for children, our dispositions morphing, while to kneel
to something precious; this space in souls, those wellic eyes, that tense by
pulse as living by natural flames; as but to live, watching as innocence
merges, this space in hearts a tear to knit.
