I’m
sick to soreness, this tapping into, where glory resides; this mischief heart,
as steeped in Jeremiah, this crying Lamentation; abroad at Jericho, subdued by
Shiloh, at terrors roaming Jerusalem.
I’ve died to sense it this
place exceeding brains at horrors at
peace with trembling; that country arc, our sins in Solomon, our wars through
David; to ache in violence, this yogic arc, at wrestles with insistence; to
have but bread, those victuals to myriads, our souls delighted to partake—this
feverish heart-quake, our daughters to songs, our blue jays to mesmerism—if but
to harness, at needs to fly, this cult adrift our membranes. I cursed a fig, as to embrace a blessing,
while too infused to conjure such spirits: that trickle bleeding, those days to
fasting, this imprint seated in genetics; as cried a monster, this Pauline soldier,
a bit to forces while driven. We mourn for Huldah, this speaker rarely sung,
while praising Debora: our tears to swans; our voices to winds; our aches by
mystic tyranny: to purchase illusion, this petit leviathan, at circles with
crocodiles—or that silent heart, as dying for mercy, where our firstborn mourns
our insanity; this inner parent, as wishing success, while grandparents soar in
spirit—that rumination, as contemplation, effaced but driven this legacy: our
filthy rags, our seraphim nightmares, those coals placed to psyches—as cried
his liver, peering at glorious flesh, this woman too extinct not to
breathe. We love by hearts, this
rainbow of thoughts, our inner person at flames; indeed, to venture, pleading
forgiveness, as forever lost; for soul-fire is cruel, while alert to panic, at
furry this furious galaxy—to come to pressure, for truths sung, while untold a
life to varnished lies. I’ve come to sing, at hearts with Nathaniel, fleeing
through caves from Saul; this king as tainted; this sword as witness; our
refusal to kill our adversary: if sighed an echo, those sparks pleading
insanity, as to return pleading sanity—that casual death, at kef with sin, as
trespassing inner secrets—that space of gods, leering at women, as to mate that
Nephilim treason—oh for curses, as oh for mercy, our sons of passions—to
harness forever, as clear a cloud, at tender concerns this woman of wars; where
souls vanish, as akin to deaths, this dungeon in graves our resurrection—where
fools cherish, this inner arm, to wave through credence a potent scar;
wherewith, our outer delights, that pail of kiwis, our brains at terrors. [I adore Love as pausing to exhale at thoughts that vision of Smurfs—where
life was agony, too simple to discern, a bit concerned by present frustration;
as Love is ghosts, this feeling lingering, that fairer skinned vixen; as, too,
that old sensation, while aching foundations, to realize we become
fundamentalists: if days are sung, as opposed to monitored, while heaviness
destroys countenance; this fire breeding, as sworn kleptomania, while sensing
this distress. It tears ligaments, as evoking compassion, while daughters muse
through sphinxes—that beige credenza, those velvet cadenzas, our tones
perceived as innocence—whereto, this fatal insight, to vanish through patience,
where mothers abort discomfort]. I
sang a song; I blazed in fury; but I never lied: this ape in souls, as dies our
cobras, while punished for soaring by Spirit; this atypical anger, where all
was lost, while silent culprit ventured to continue that course; this melic
heart-pressure, as songbirds mourn, while said culprit mingles that nation: if
but to flourish, as hated a soul, a bit to recognizing complexion; that mad
family, at playing pretend, while living distraught; whereat, are distressors,
even duress, while two become sober monsters.
