1.
My core isn’t ruined, despite my travesties.
2.
I’m localized love, despite my travesties.
3. I
deserve mutuality, despite my travesties.
4.
Our color is not depicted by my travesties.
5.
We’ve rites to live, despite our travesties.
6.
We shall not avenge, despite our travesties.
7.
I’m filled with faith, in spite of travesties.
I
must to die, by Cajun winds, at glens petrified: if life to gain, torn in
twain, hounding that immortal queen: our terrorized capture, while becoming
aloof, in spite of his texture: that valve of codeine; that vex of pressure; to
trash by life his vision: while mother smiles, that intimate demon, at forces
cursed adrift our intimacy; at stale cages, by cuffs for mental, peering at
possessed souls; as lived a villain, too cagey for friends, to hear by
nonsense; that fuse by souls, an inner motif, while divested of jealousies. We cemented crime, our women to panels, as
crazed as deacons at podiums; that illusional nightmare, or candent daybreak,
as fleeing that texture of intellect; where tears perfuse dreams, as news
induces screams, our memories abused. We dine as mortals, our immortal cuisine,
to morph as one a city of segments; that detrimental, at love by absence,
sawing through platinum scars—to season existence, peering at pouty eyes, but
too removed to decode cries; that need for love, those showered affections, as
more a plaintiff for love: that artsy daughter; that drumming son; our cadence
vacuumed in fireflies; in much a tale, our kiosk perfections, travelled by
travesties; or years by parachutes, too cold to please, as ever an excuse for
straying. I must to die, leering at delicacies, embedded in dreams; to hope
perfection, this weary soul, seeing our imaginations—applying therapy, while
lost to tragedy, our children crying, “Mommy.” I’m drifting further, our
Jesus-mania, seated in a tiny office: to intuit a gaze, splayed by science,
those copious travesties; to need for breath, that chef of lights, rushing to
FedEx; as life’s a scream, sectioned in groups, sipping for tasting, to conjure
a therapist: this title of souls; our daughters to planets; our mothers to
dreams: as searching satiation, by an unsated demand, this thing of addicts
needing oceans: if but to breathe, that ten year excursion—so icy, so cold; that
fetid shame, while seeking comfort, our sciences repeating principles. I loved
magnets, a piece of self to fusions, while clear to heart this aversion for
delusions; that force of methods, at heaven’s quarters, a pair of mental
seraphim(s): as tragic our autumn; so deeply deluded; while, nevertheless,
something lived: that spasmatic chi; that shorn stigmata; or that particular
stance by women; as seen it thrice, by home, academia, plus, in offices—to die
this length, traipsing white magic, coming by fires those blackened arts; as,
nevertheless, this feast within, as dining upon trestles, to want for structure
that inking ache: those beautiful gestures; that maze for one; our connection superseding
our humanity: that beige sun; those dictum daffodils; that cry heard by none;
as torn travesties, or morbid love, afire by ecstasies; or pure illusion, to
never that mind, while demanding absolution.
