We
exhaust love, by coiling love, where love requires flitting—this miracle
crystal, our Jewish candles, our terrorized souls—insofar, as redemption, that
candid mirror, this inner abandonment—to scud over ice, or trek volcanoes, by treasures
to endure resistance—those flinty caves, seated in muddy pools, at rapture a
series of languages: our daughters to tethers, influenced by tale-agents,
fleeing for crawling while guiding siblings: our mother’s dream, at peace, this
home of star gems—but a tunnel to souls, this faucet of prose, as torn those
radical years: to forgive a shadow, while bleeding darkness, this gift of
tortures that life. We attempt
balance, our self-reflection, our chalkboards speaking our language—as never an
illness, this event by truths, where life becomes exceedingly tendentious; but
this to kites, as admiring beauty, seated in a den of portraits: those scented
cigars; that eighteenth century scotch; that rattling air-conditioner; if
snakes to gardens, than gardens to mice, our great grandchildren molding our
departures: that mystic soul, as meditated life, that grandmother debating
deeds—as lived a brain, so encouraged an ethicist, by terrors wrestling our
father’s dilemmas: that speaking clock; such congested pash; our realist
natures: if but a ceiling, bleeding our crises, this thing for disaster’s
tragedy—as courted a butterfly, to flit through galaxies, such incumbent
failures. I sense a giant, this swan
of souls, at cadence this inner dimension—to frolic through winds, jogging at
pace, while culling out colors: this miracle grieving; that science to heart;
this spirit as rapidly undisclosed: those fretted features; this wandering
through deserts; by tempers a bit concerned: such tense to sadness, this pursuing
of activities, our petals wilting for replacement—while flying freely, at
treasures for courses, fumbling through that gentle atmosphere—those days to
singing, as alive a current, by each fuse a legacy—those enthralling novels,
where life is drifting, that trenchant fan-fantasy; or arts to Star Wars, those
outstanding characters, our hearts to space peering at novelties: indeed, by
swans; indeed, through magic; as more to reason those somber feelings: our
existential; our wrenching psychologies; our lines as paper thin—as never this
life, climbing through portals, at wants this atypical excitement—that world as
flowing, our lights as running, our hearts as freedom—where arts are gems, our
parents are astronauts, our dialogues are German Shepherds—this soul-fire,
those respected experts, our territories requiring acrylic phantoms: that
riddle in time; this daughter by flits; our friends as treasures—to bleed
through threads, as composed to reciprocate, while maintaining our
perspectives. I feel sorrows, as one
built by humanity, wafting as clawing up mountains: that brief of mistakes;
that delicate grandmother; our family such as pulled asunder: to see for
purple, this royal woman, while at terrors to sacrifice: this place in souls;
this space your heart; to realize, We
give to receive: but such are souls, planning for swimming, as sensing
tremendous sacrifice. I adjure a soul—to live freedom, while at flights through
physics: learn through practice; sense through seasons; commit if laws are
fair—this place in brains, as feelings dispute, again a heart to waft—this
non-erasable, this planet of textures, this space of permanent particles—where
aches admire, our similar faces, at tales to realize this repeatable nature.
