I
return to zero, but a soul delirious, by aches musing upon dreams—as screamed a
nun, to shy from sin, again by glens peering into swans; to mingle his arc,
that fevered rush, as becoming distant this cycle: such are signs, this losing
by rest, that lethargic gait—to tread his chorus, this living liturgy,
accustomed to silent whispers; to assume a dream, by religiosity, seated at a
daughter’s windmill; where kids gather, so facetious by wilderness, at play
while mother measures—those internal cues, that endless cure, our sentence
becoming our joys. I return to zero, by
filming this phantom, this operation of brains.
I shall love an ache; I shall die immortality; I shall seize
eternity—this silent vehicle, as vocal by arts, our feelings becoming our
rubrics; while swans pillage, those mobile verses, as etching randomly to
become intellectual surgeons. I’d defang
pain, if mortal a brain, while seething it recurrence: that encircled agony;
that swooning misery; or arts to life this immortal mother—as chiming with
wisdom, to ask precise questions, as by force to alter a sullen mood—where
phantoms fade, as drifting through currents, to arrive as able arcs: that
beautiful dream, as antsy a mind, while stationed in cemented psychologies—to
etch a brain, as cold to fires, while such rejuvenates inhibitions—that lemon
agony, as purifying wounds, while one becomes molded by experiences. I’ll give life; I’ll shatter sky-domes; I’ll
bleach impurities—while gifted a sinner, as placed in crucibles, while
maneuvering through elders—those parental eyes, this dowry of miseries, while
gleaning insatiable joys—that man to deaths, that unnoticed shiver, while
praying for a sober transition: our achy souls, splattered in public squares,
as accounted for dear light—that mystic musing; that yogi calculating; our beings rapid towards interventions—as
debating life, to subsist a spirit, at truths by travails—where father watches,
as splayed asunder, while at secrets to maintain swanic futures: this place in
minds, that classy archive, a vessel by aches scratching her wrist. At spaces in time, a soul’s abject, by sour
innocence; at edges to freedom, this rifting feeling, to sudden upon a breakthrough:
this endless cycle, to occupy space, or muse for hours upon a dragonfly: that
shift; those wings; that chlorine agitation: if but to harness, this cautious
feeling, to appear with time that mirror’s recognition—to dissect by sickle,
those aglets about brains, where love is segue.
I return to zero, asearch for zenith, or some sort of in-between—where
absence isn’t pain, but more deprivation, while onlookers appeal to begging the
question—while stars are forming, our galaxies to appraise, as crazed for this
zeal to fly: that locket singing; those trinkets as utilized; our rituals
soaring into heart-impressions: to utter love, while stitching love, abrupt by
love.
