I
see gorgeous this cadent flight our portent fire—as abused a dream,
inverted a miracle, to enter passing his life: our purple apricots; our
turquoise peaches; such welted doubts.
We cry perfection, effused by demons, at horrors that mystic house—to
die a smidgen, abandoned to pash, craving forbidden horrors: if tears to live,
as graves to flourish, our nights baptized in fevers—where love freezes, as
thought to sanity, by fretters a bit to melancholia: our sylvan conquered,
aflame this art, mesmerized through fire-tree-autumns; our sunflower amore,
while kissed such disaster, to abort with crime while dead. We flurry actions as damned to live our sluggish dialogue.
Day II
By
romantic languor, our languishing moon, our cagey parakeets—that cyan passion,
to open his soul, as performed his life: such cryptic anguish, explained as
ghostly, our manikins breeding miracles; as cut to marrow, our palms cupping
heaven, this blank picture that florid mystery—insomuch, this need, as composed
through fire, to portrait between opposites: that frisky banter, if but to
lose, where sylphs study sternness—this false betrayal, as sutured our smiles,
by graves born more survival: that cultic thump, rapt’d in imitation, a thread
so omic that nuance. It’s 9th by hour, while to reckon silence, our
photo-perfect-breaths; that tacit music, as charmed that rain of rainbows, to
portrait such youthful thoughts: those melting glaciers; that warming caldron;
our souls percolating; by aches, that frantic porcelain, our intoxication, our
screams!
Thought Shift
What
by lights, looking it hides, while a glimpse sudden to daybreak: our used
souls, to bypass existence, our dreams cleaving unreality?—as but to cadence,
this tempered swamp-cooler, our years trekking through cages: that romantic
air, so shady our sights, this awning spinning by sunbeams—as hushed a river,
our sultry queen, at ninety degrees to torture souls; that faint reply, as
receiving life, our igloos by acacia frolics—where love whispers, as presumed
to speak, while at for love our crying dragons.
I
drift, seated at ideals, plucking grass from crevices—this liquid mood-swing,
as terrible friction, by horrid feelings through justice: to mention tritely,
this figure to souls, while said figure predominates her existence—as rigid
workouts, at days by fasting, or mainly a nibble while frolicking by love: this
songstress art, as pure inflection, our tones rummaging as unsaid.
