It
lives internally, this calling breath, this intuition; as less to facts, this
inner grimace, as running through velvet meadows; to cry this ark, seeking for
bawling, this magnet heart. I saw us crawling, while forked at roads, enduring
this twilight; to sing of mercy, as changed in titles, this forest of prayers.
I loved as mental, this recognition, while distant as seas; this perfect
effusion, prior to chaos, where mothers agree to pardon. I can’t forsake, this
wind immortal, while seasoned a
digestive spirit; where souls are tugged, as time to futures, this pendulum
seeping into brains. I fathom loss, this
inner cross, trickling into whirlwinds; as born again, while fevered to
exist—this bliss as kissed in seconds: that fume of love; that fragrance of actions;
where souls resurrect. We have to live,
as pulled asunder, feeling through introspection: this lively art; this perfect
soul; as steeped in Zen traditions; where passion is law, this thing of
nuisance, as to shift to change pursuits: this welcomed voice, as deep
meditation, to know by sights this wealth of truths; or more experience, as
never to speak—of chimes seeping into legends.
It had to live us, this fabulous exchange, while terrified deeply; to
have such feelings, this incorrigible love, as egregious as Job’s sin; to die
perfection, as grinning in woes, to find for days a slight injustice: this mark
of targets, as swollen with pride, where earth affects a sullen thought: this
crime of ways, as distant to touch, where something screeches internally; but
more the esoteric, this vest of heartbeats—those drums as tribal as
forgiveness; to see for stars, this blind confusion, as creeping near flames;
to die so young, an addict by grades, flickering for falling into mischief. We must suffuse, this wave of grandeur,
peering at God’s jurisdiction; while owls are weary, peeking at daylight, at
tears to fathom our nightfall; this marvelous soul, a bit psychotic, fleeing
through depressions; as feeling heavy, despite those rubies, where curiosity
plagues contentions. I loved a choice,
trekking through traffic, where life becomes cosmic: this deep incision, as
painted in smoke—our years as torrent volcanoes. I drift this return, as feeling emotions,
this mind as strong as tenets; to move a country, while gripping a finger—this
baby a grown woman. It could be ours,
this welkin sin, where others linger in silence; or it could be ours, a house
of children, as we flurry in guilt: this marvel of days; this wretched night;
those graves haunting our attics; but what to pains, this deep attachment,
where our souls gravitate—this mission of arts, as carted in woes, while cuffs
abandon our futures; for this is life, these links within, to know a soothing
voice; that body of tattoos, as literal agendas, speeding through mother’s
addictions: this crime of tears, too heavy to confess, where love writhes in
agonies; but this is life, a child and wife, searching for falling into Yoga:
this powerful force; as claiming eternal; where souls forge islands: that
electric arc; while filtered in grays; as sought for science this love. I wanted more, aside for education, to race
by feelings this captivation; as charged to live, while dying in parts, to cook
for adventures; this gravid feeling, at peace with patience, while time proves
its curse.
