Dear Swan

I could to die, at love as rivers, so close to devastate destruction—this scented falderal, at cultures grieving, to love for mother by surrendering: that fragile pit; those bulbous chimes; our surreal music—as gothic instructions, at tears your name, to live dying with grandma—my heart to sores, our doors to flourish, this woman too mystic his screams; to feel by office, this case of coffins, while distorted another’s perception; where swans sing, as lived his life, at territories bleeding Christ—that fledgling distance, to sense by presence, this father swarming by nightfall; that psych as livid, that psych as gifted, that swirl by addictions—this place of healing, while divine as Huldah, afforded this armor of destinies; where mothers perish, as fathers evolve, this tale he told: our brackets breaking; our demons amuck; our daughters to seasons bleeding proprieties. (His love was shallow, this void of communication, while another flared the blues): that trumpet castle; those lively sessions; our kingdoms fraught with drugs and liquor—to die a soul, as morphed a man, too late to receive a psych. I chased for dissention, to find forgiveness, while detriments linger that churchyard: our priests seething; our phantoms redeeming; our mothers too close to outlive. I’m cold to winter, as swarming through summers, to fall apart come fall; that cryptic ark, so trenchant a wizard, to have read us blindly: that insidious glare; those archaic smiles; that Greek orientation…while daughters fever, at wells of silence, too patient to outwit science; this space of comets, this heart of swans, to know for love this vehicle—that sled of brooks, that grandmother wit, those channels afforded grandfather: if died an uncle, to adore an aunty, our fathers sipping for closure: that chapter bleeding; that anchor creeping; that sudden fall from above. I’ve died crying, to outlive mother, as too, to outlive father; this inner sequence, to know this parent, as to have outlived his son. I’m crying life, as sensing mother, this heart shackled to scars…to ask a friend, to unlatch pain, where tears become therapeutic…if but to live, as cinnamon diamonds, reading through self-affliction; as prodigies to essence, or essence to vandals, while remembering our childhood infractions. I loved a mystic, at peers of abeyance, to advance but blind his mirror; to vamp that star, as manic a dream, where reality inverted its wishes; this place of fires, as esteemed a fool, while at ventures to redeem such passion; that deep plethora, those curtain visions, that pleat in essence to in-fold by passions. It could be life, this swanic pressure, to outlive distain: that miracle wit, as accustomed to wealth, while afforded that deep compassion; to cry a feather, as bending winds, our swans to soar! It should be God, to have held his hand, while our worlds broke for havens; and it should be God, to have visited his heart, while bones were crumbling; that fever for Trinity, as redeemed in our Godhead, to know this grieving theologian. I love a swan, as pure conviction, notwithstanding, that tale of dementia; to ask that heart, to flow through pangs, as growing a soldier, as becoming a warrior: if cried his life, that heaven his haven, preparing divinities.