Love’s Travail

By inking blood, to adore that image, as faces become love—this delicate scar, abused to care, by ironic occurrences.

I saw for mercy, what he couldn’t have—so more those curses; to kiss by joys, this phantasmagoria, so inclined to wake up—that anchor rising, to become affective, by methods of disdain—as casual hells, where knells resound—our bride pitted in offcolored dignities—that love soaring, as cleaving to drunkenness, to fetch for such nectar. I saw for mercy, that trenchant heart, as pensive a dream—to witness nothing, aside that inner maniac—so ruthless for fables—as cried his life, by leaping illusions, to slight by professed love.  I can’t find it; I can’t feel it; I must find it: this deep allure, to panic his words, as this correlation emerges—where death is beauty, as beauty is life, while ever that sore galloping that cadence; to frantic by hearts, as to flutter by brains, where faith arises by frame-ship—that delicate art, to witness configuration, to know that love has run its course: that tender leap, as taking for leads, a camera reposing an image; to capture by glimpse, this immortal wound, by treasures to ache that force: if but delusion, than give us illusion, as so proud to leak realities—that soft harpoon, to welkin a star, where affects render depression—or flat a soul, pleading for fires, while emoting as if to feel.  

I shall love an image; I shall love a person; I’ll stand that tribunal—as beseeching love, while distant to graves, fleeing with seraphim(s)—as cautioned to perish, prior to affections, while courtship becomes a hellish device—as crossed by guts, tugging for dying—such care to erase that first impression—where arts were bleeding, as sheer infection, but casual a glimpse—to have for pains, this nature of souls, while embarking upon that seventh region.  I shall adore a scar, this pelted feeling, as craving immortality; to grace by chimes, a heart to sleeves, a shoulder grieving such reciprocity—where aches intensify, as psychs evaluate, our rhythm a bit defeatist—but eyes to love, as chasing in silence, to confessing that love has perished; as more a remnant, or more a scar, or more something deeply intimate—where crises ensue, that chamber of essence, while pitted in a block of ice; that cold warmness, as picked amore, where feelings kill that inner goal; to arrive to self, but a moment in time, to realize those egregious feelings. I’ll never remove it; I’ll value its temperaments; I’ll realize its permanence—this inner essence, as claiming its territory, by sparks unknitting its resistance—to perish as richness, this dungeon of flowers, this welkin of deep travail.