I
can’t but love life, this song birthed newly, while at angst an existential
tumor—that swanic heart, at terrors to appear, where mirrors inflate our
caustic tongues—to have for hubris, this plight of matrimonies, up-and-‘til our
flights with justice. It becomes so trite, or more too analytical, while groaning
in our spirits—this space by culture, our nature or nurture, by furious fires.
Our mothers to sadness, at such beautiful smiles, to find this current of fruit
flies; as time was buried, or chimes were infused, our passions screaming in
ecstasy: those years to pass, while feeling too close, at measures to suffer a
tinge of thunder: that gorgeous heartache; that lucrative swan; our
grandmothers by tiny deaths; as music bled, those cyan currents, our jasper
highlights; to draw a feeling, as splattered paints, this furious culture of
rage—where love is green, as becoming blue, to arrive at grayness. I ache a
swan, those marvelous volts, at times to seep into concentration—as pulling
backwards, evaluating new material, a bit torn concerning conclusions: that inner
thesis, as becoming a dissertation, while tattoos wail conviction; by far to
justice, to cry fundamental, where facts are raging against tenets; as more a
soul, spacing through portals, to find mother escaping his brains: that dark
chill; our minds becoming humans; this silent essence chasing our countenances.
I ache a swan, this temperamental position, while fleeing inner turmoil; to ask
by love, this thing of new slates, where honor resounds in humble hearts; to
inherit gardens, while flushed with pearls, as given that first fruit: this
edgy conviction, as swarming galaxies, to find this Ghost aflame our
mind-beats: if but to cherish, as, indeed, to perish, while steeped in
resurrection. I love our swan, to adore that light, while pushing in spirit to
ignite a flame: that casual feeling, as swarming its ark, to become by seconds
aligned in fevers—that musical drum-line, to evaluate phenomena, as one alters
another’s physiology; that subtle scent, as swore it lived, by far a soul
adrift a scar; indeed, to love, this welkin art, afforded to souls fraught with
studies: that inner depth; those pyre visions; such by passion to flourish.
