(“I
Love you”); but it’s so saddening—this death concerning humans, while so
animated a lie—our cursed souls, at lust for joys—this morbid address…to return
to mirrors, a pill as a friend, our vodkas as lovers—to amaze a dream, while
focused but seconds, to reckon such bliss as disappearance—while centered our
lives, that invested future, sensing by captures a miracle…as learning by
liberation, to devastate normality, such a brilliant smile disguising
suspicion—where nights echo, our fumes to gardens, our plums and grapes and loquats;
as never they died, over fifty years of matrimony, and never so gorgeous as
candid eyes—that torrent of woes, that valley of cries, such Brazilian
insanity—as cursed with love, too emphatic that love, while revving such
rejuvenation…as to rival arts, while tugged a snag, where lust suffered its
rescue; that inner suffering, to sense with time, as given but all to children;
this morbid address, as existential majesty, afforded one pragmatic tear: those
roots by knowledge, as cultured to believe, at wars those scopes of
skepticism—while life is sparrows, or golden jackals, by rites this passage charming
wisdom. It’s so saddening, our intimate melancholy, at reasons to grip for dear
lights: as consideration, our terrors to lose, while so intimate our dreaded
situation—that antic guitar, that steep romanticism, our years perusing through
seduction—to meet with errors, as so guilty a soul, while never so warm a
lover: as damned to feelings; while cursed by emotions; to find such
fleetingness those joys; insomuch, a maze, such fabricated butterflies,
catering to ladybugs, nestling with ferrets…that faraway castle, as becoming by
years, our human condition…atop a
tidal wave, while surfing our intellect, to arrange this hostile balance. Its
pure magnificence, this metaphysical, to come to terms—as injecting principles,
while immersed in sadness, our mirth a mural by madness; where passion kilns, this method furnace, our hands to
careers—if but for science, that balanced soul, while a nightmare is
creeping—to shadow children, this life by beauties, our aesthetics as dreams,
our friends like life-vests—to have for purpose, as driven to rescue, this
person given more than myths: our candid hearts; our livid loyalties; our
captured fires—where mothers are ghosts, aflame our conscience, as fathers slam
but gavels—to garner perfection, if but those months, this tiny woman a
machine…as infusing a legacy, captured by one last dance, too ecstatic for
morbid circumstance. [(Take it by
grunion, this flight towards suffering, as acclaimed an inner cinema—to have
but life, imprisoned in souls, afforded a thousand luxuries—as never to
freedom, this antecedent, as captured in a premise: that gorgeous scholar;
those magnificent graves; our caves spewing for choking up sulfur—this moon
deigning, our sun cringing, such by music to drift that pleasant meadow…to have
for passions, as more towards success, to live according to illusional
rules—that part in reality, as filtered through perception, as one dances a eulogy;
where death is cadence, as eerie a nightmare, to pull by vests this reason to
exist—as positive enforcers, while cursed prior to wombs, to flee for scudding,
aflight an inner paradigm…insofar, a dream, this casual routine, by wars tugged
to extremes: that liquid stream, to pass beneath concrete, this current by
least resistance…to courage as love, accorded by vexation, at flux with
deliberateness)].
