I
see a cygnet, but weary a dream, fraught by affections; this intricate space,
as chasing rivers, to web a sea of sediments: that breastbone love; that
sunburst kiss; those fragile tentacles; as strong as ships, flushed to but fro,
at wars with waves: that whale pushing; those screams upon Jonah; our wails to
gods to distinguish our Hebrews; that sentence, by such that office, to sit
feeling particles; that flaming sky, as larks to brains, our wings becoming
ether. We’re splayed asunder, as curious as kittens, about a miracle that
vision; to open gates, as born Jerusalem, while trekking Zionists’ hills. We
float epiphanies, threaded in discernment, to realize deception—as so far that
passage, to mistaken omens, while infused a dream that Oakland misery; that
inner snapshot, as glistened reality, by essence so torn a legacy; where
mothers nod, as sensing distress, this space so engraved so deeply. I wonder of
love, this arc of communion, as driven to retreat: that achy person; those
shooting stars; that concert of spiritual beings: this wealth of lux, while
dismissive a feeling, as friends participate in creating chaos: those words
aching, to utter affection, where such might be disdained; but life is that, and life is this, our screaming becoming mobile entities; to flush his soul,
while awaiting our prayers, that return with such interests. I feel a
conduit—that pristine battle—that warfare at knees—to live a soul, that
darkness of light, as treasured that light of darkness; to imagine pain, as a
mystic lives, a patch of webs crawling our structures: if but to breathe, that
paradise of baptism, while conflicted by contradiction: our immortal waves, to
wrestle by mortality, at once, our paradox. I fret to utter, those rosy words,
where one is searching to discredit intentions; as life to brains, our love
exceeding intellect, our ballads as inner ripples; to curse by storms, while
heavy with seas, our shoreline a millennia to reach; insomuch, this light,
partaking of holy water, living through Stewie—our necks to churn—our elixir to
burn—our alchemic dynasties. I know for naught, this vest of cries, as one
streaming his mother’s eyes: I know for aches, this urn of woes, to know
through self that cage of prose: if but to live, as sinned his mind, while
alert to polish windows; that clear heaven, our domes on high, that mental
keyboard: those cryptic ways, to feel distress, as infused to breathe: that
painted telegraph, as alive that thunderstorm, while at beliefs this soul afar:
as but to memories, this place of prose, as scrolled his destinies: that mobile
ache; that telegram fire; this wheel of Spirit.
