We
master segments, Love spaced in
articles lost to imagination; our
categorical imperatives, flitting for flying, angered with politics—our
lifespan harmonies infused with chaos at some sort of mechanism; this intricate
fever at love with vengeance that treasure that separates us: if but to
flourish, agaze’d by blue jays, amazed by songbirds, this feeling by needs our
abysses. I adore potential, with patience to sculpture, a bit flat and
flabbergasted: this hectic spin, this present sobriety, those ferns our Sierra
minds; as losing silence, while merging in essence, our mothers realizing
destinies: that religious sister; that insightful grin; our hearts to candent
pressures—insomuch, to scud, this radical nuance, at tears our youth is
vanishing: that plate of biscuits; those red beans with rice; this love for
Zatarain’s products—if but to wings, as soars a swan, our temperamental
Blackness: that inner stopwatch; that outer whirlwind; those studies as forging
this imperfect ladder—as hearted for fervor, this rain as cadence, our music as
mere reflection; to harvest wilderness, while trekking through mountains, to
witness others kayaking through sludge : this face as brilliant, that chaotic term,
while words become annoyances; but not so young, as floored in success, where
dreams are rooted in sky-rises. We
come to roads, peering at signposts, at wonders about direction: that febrile
fire, afloat our furies, as but a smidgen of our heart-kites; as,
notwithstanding, and forevermore, this passion to read those fan-sparks;
indeed, with vengeance, and, moreover, with decoration, where soulprints embed
diamonds. I see lights. I hear swans. I touch a feeling. I smell lavender. I taste imperfection. It comes to memory, as to witness our parts,
in spite, of feeling indemnity; as souls fretter, where minds are constructed,
while many times we miss our objective; this dungeon of mishaps, where heels
dig into soil, as to climb while gripping sky-arcs. I fathom a feeling, spinning for flying,
at solace but a second: our casual havoc, as far too averted, as we fancy it
means so little. I promise by
life this inner distraction where mirrors must be buffered; but more
by love, to coddle a thought, where strangers chime as lost souls: this place
of kindness, as rooted in compassion, while havoc intends its purpose. I write in space, as seeing an image, this
bright, brave, and brilliant face; where love simmers, as stew is seasoned,
where arms reach.
