I
fathom this life, as wow that claim, but passions for love. I revel in marsh,
an agile wit, or too slow to fathom; as born perceptions, that correlation,
falling but fleeing…this life of dreams, encased in actions, too engrossed to
withdraw. I’m addled with love, a fern
to a fool, a cave to a hermit: such passionate cries, to outlive cries, fleeing
for falling that love. Our wild inflation, as controlled fires, screaming such
by compassion: that miracle love, as spread-out love, to give but a second that
year as slain. I’m but a shell, this man to cells, as bars that dungeon; to cry
perfections, while short upon standards—that gross endeavor; indeed, my life,
an attic bomb, a banshee in a web—that ghostly charm, that facial goddess, this
woman advertising her flaws…to see me squirm, as if to deaths, while at woes to
seduce…that place in mystery, our vatic dyes, our women as cyclones. I felt a
spear, his eyes to water, as no-one to see—this virtue of tears, a son to
chaos, our bass, our voice, our chase…to sense his mind, her will adjusted, our cries emphatic: that
cryptic soul, to move his loins, so subtle a windstorm: that squall to breath;
that dell to brains; as lost he could but wouldn’t…that fragile heart, as deaf
to rejection, seducing by misery…that edgy cliff; that striking pose; our
balconies by secrets; to feel but cores, that bled his life, to touch as dying
his cries; that feral passion, a tour but a moment, so proud by womb; as if to
live, that faint whiff, to waft by cadence. I’ll live this valley, at peace
with silence, an abbot as a cultist; to sin through time, a siren by oceans, to
near for riches; that trenchant mind, to have lived as legends, away so parted
a fig—that scream, as sensing our veins, and never again…at needs to recant, if
but to discern, our breastbones cleaving to love; that human belief, as
searching but evidence, to find at sudden delights; that sun of souls, or cries
of weather, a bit evinced for choir—that dream as rising, to adjust upon high,
to feel it as flaming leaves. I do for love, this love for dos, our souls
trickling passions…to die so alone, while cleaving to love, proud by culture
that kernel—this well of feathers, our disabilities, our careless love—as blind
to never, sorting through silt, but a
raindrop that pearly womb…to reappear, a man to shackles, while flickering his
ankles: that soothing mistake, as cried our love, to return a shattered example;
in truth, our voice, flames at fingertips, or sunbeams over coffee: that
brilliant heart; those ode eyes; that ballad as trekking by graces—that furious
gait, as modest with pride, to shift through churns tugging our cries: if ever
to love, afloat that sentence, to see it midair: those delirious sighs, at
timing his essence, as wolves become human faculties. I love a soul, so died
his love, as morphing into majestic tides—that curious trail, as hell to
deaths, while silence killed our joys. Oh for passion, clashing over tales,
this undertow at destruction.
