While
for cryptic warfare, our moods heavy, our currents bleeding; as blood to life,
or blue rivers, to shiver his bones. I love remotely, this feeding on
frequencies, our hearts rumbling; as seated so closely, laughing at mirrors, at
points dying to mirrors; that musicality, that valley of instruments, that
mobile pantheon: if brought to essence, to love professions, our wheels flooded
with persons. I’d die to leave us, this autumn wind, as dying to keep us; those
friends lying, that tale to space, our encrypts bleeding. It must bend justice,
that anthology of livers, to ask of what becomes: this pale island, as colored
in torments, our psychs pleading our resurrections: if but to perish, as
Olivia’s arc, while fevered to puddles barley rising. I felt a dream, to perish
a scream, as beams floored injustice: that spark of dying, as crying that web,
too involved to see infinity: that parish of treasures; that priest at deaths;
that mystic afforded vernacular transcripts; to rise as falling, as kissed by
frumps, those mystics hiding in shady diners. I could to live, a child as a
friend, her mother as skeptic: if but for self, as comparing dynasties, while a
treasure to jealousies;
that
fatal invention, to court another’s life, where to retreat becomes warfare;
this harsh reality, if but those gifts, to wonder about this pash of irony. Our
love to Rihanna; our debates to Beyoncè; as life this Hourglass to Trixie: as born those meadows, appalled by brooks, at
fevers with fathers; for death kills, while killing deaths, to ask a child to
explain such perils; this fist of flowers, at graves by morning, as too, by
invention to evade capture; that running life, at lights with angst, at fears
that prolix of words:
if
but to cherish, that welkin frame, if more to enter that romantic womb; but
this is fire, that death they granted, while all the more, products of
trespass. It’s not meant to cherish, while to perish as blocks, this cagey but
jutted feeling; where love is capture, as infused a dream, our parents writhing
insanely: that achy arch; those tragic appeals; such by travesties to raise a
son: that citron archive; that battle at Troy; such apish calamity;
where
daughters tremble, while mothers envy, this place in time aborting its legacy;
as
one left life, to conjure by mystery, too involved to witness destruction.
