I’m
skillets by fire, such infatuation, too intimate this feeling; as pash for
innocence, that torn explanation, to garner rejection; while born a fever, our
scarlet webs, seated, petting a sow: that furious attraction, as died our
souls, so infectious forbidden dreams—to scream by passage, this green
adventure, eclipsed to feel by cadence new. I’m dungeons by fire, at tears by
aesthetics—ravished those caramel flames; to exclude many, as taken by few, a
welkin blue flower; insomuch, that arrival, our neighboring planes, effected by
wingspan; as air to lungs, or oxygen to leaves—so conflicted such marble
madness; a caked existence—that odor bleeding, those limbs but majesty; this
place he runs, as addicted-beauty, while reflection seems contorted; that wire seeping,
as unraveling roots—so congested our Roman instincts: so filled a butterfly; so
instinctive a fire; so close shunned afar—that miracle trespass; that shy
transgression; that ecstatic retreat; as, nevertheless, engaged in sadness, as
creating volume, but a flicker by purple our skies—where passion weeps, by
storms for closure, agaze by turquoise drums. I’m torrents by fire, admiring
imagination, and so disappointed; as shivering by trembles, accustomed by
fancies, forbidding false existence; that chime that failed, as feeling so
tense, this need for fantasies; that shorn escape, our realities pelted, this
beating upon concrete for breath. I could to life, as should for oxygen, our
forests embedded with doubts; as told for wisdom, to exclaim those measures, as
one possessed by beauty: that fabulous sky; those cryptic gestures; that
falling by rising to trip by cadence—if but to die, while pleading forgiveness,
our adventures seeking newness. I’m terrors by fire, at membrance a soul—but a
fool those living eyes; as would a blue jay, or feral a lion, to serenade as
songbirds; that symphonic heartbeat, as lived his knowledge, that reference
point his core; to know that face, a mirror to an ape—such fancy as miraculous
anger; where parrots mimic, as surprising those syllables, where a sentence
slips into existence; this newness of life, while purple a dream, at trembles
for flames. I’m errors by love—so exclusive by horrors, our cities standing in
silence; that slippery garden, as to fever that chance, as, instead, we perish
with pride; this space of majesty, at attempting godship, barraged by incoming
grenades; to die as living, this inner mechanism, while adrift this anchor
slipping through sodden grounds. I found by fire, this mystic attraction, where
flowers became instruments; as picking persons, if but to history, to exclaim
infatuation: that beige desert; that green oasis; our castles upon islands;
insofar, our minds, flickering through passions, afflux another heart-pond:
those florid bees; at tragic cadence; at tears that forbidden honey.
