I seep
by creases, as found in crevices, to leap by ashes—this fount immortal, as told a son, to flee for
flying that desert current—as alleluia, those
wilting welts, afar by dungeons that scar. If time is gentle, our anguish to
wings, so far attached to sorrows; that mortal
sting, as suffocating death, those ledgers depicting our imageries. I sought a
swan, as sung a song, so far to curses that born indifference; those sordid
affections, as shared with brilliance, to find aside those odors: our nescience
bleeding; our treasures afar that cliff; our rivalries becoming unsung nuances:
if brought to kef, while alive through liquor, that agony restraining tortures:
that velvet face; our faceless screams; our neighbors sensing divinity—as
brooks to souls, or mothers solid pressures, as found destroyed but grasping
for breath; where arts perish, as destroyed in liquids, while terror haunts our
region. I die that mind, as infused that mind, to unwind by depth that immortal
clinging. I heard a swan, as lived a swan, to ballet through trauma to dance
our cries: that cryptic feather, as aborting perceptions, while, nonetheless, to
hold contempt; as buried in glasses, peering at luxuries, a man by years
pleading for perfection: that achy woman, to drift his mind, as closure to hold
by terrors. [(We trudge for solace, that immortal wisdom, fevered for flying
while falling through hells—as sought for Jesus, those tussles with Krishna,
while to sin by a godless soul: those mosaic crimes, as Moses would cringe, our
days afloat defining kites—as liquid his arch, while afflicted his soul, to
leer into motion’s mirrors—those atoms grieving, as molecules bled, our hurt a
bit to Daniel: if gave him life, to take that life, while one becomes that
power—than ache this tale, as terrified souls, our homes to treacherous
behaviors)]. I found a swan, so delicate a jewel, so aloof a magician—to blend
as daiquiris, our grandmother’s sin, while forgetting our tragic lives; as
never forgiveness, for one to perfections, with aches to hear of sin: that
precious disposition, as one better than Jesus, at wonders this thing for
crosses. I’m slipping lowly, to arise with virtues, peering at baser elements;
to know for Paul, this saint of villains, upon my road to Damascus—that gravid
light, as kicking against goads, afraid a horse might escape: that terrific
terror, as tragic an art, to seep too lowly that entrance of minds.
I’m
sensing anguish, or that mellow agony, while afforded grit to surface; that
inner cloth, that tunic scream, abated by offices aglow; that hankering
numbness, those gothic wings, as never we lived so accursed—those tragic
crimes, pitted in tragic times, our mothers forced to persevere. I felt
sensory, to escape a notion, so deep to feel that volt; as sudden conjecture, this
life she lives, as impartial facing partialities: that mount by hills; those
electric fires; our chants to seep into catastrophes—as more to epiphanies, as
discerning lights, while pitted in transmigrations; that swan singing, as
Princess listens, her eyes swelling with acidic tears; that inner father, as
born to nurse, while finding solace that step-father’s brains. I’m living cold,
to marshal by arts, this woman by lyric-taekwondo: if but to perish, seated
with Buddha, this Christian alive with Thick Nat Hahn; as eclipses flourish,
while minds turn blank, that guidance as supernatural. If only by aches, this
faceless river, as conflicted with similes—that priest at demons; that exorcist
to fail; that torrid possession—as never a thought, so shifty with chills,
fevered by cadence those warm waters: if but a dream, to cage our terrors, I’ll
scream alive our sharers. I’m seeking nectar, this concretive-abstract, as one
playing with words: but sense for lights, as never so authentic, while a
kaleidoscope fails to preach it—that death he cried; that soul he ached; that
affection as lost; where mothers panic, so alive that curse, to find for
reaching where alleys are curious. This alikeness of death, where death is like
lightning, as furious a scream our inverted dreams: that casual likeness; that
hymn to souls; our creators seeping into remote regions.
