It’s
been us cemented in thoughts I wonder for clarity; this inner penguin,
at seas for centuries, at tears our current phantoms; this outer plight, alive
with terror, our daughters plagued by our fires: if but to dreams, or academia, this flavor disconcerted—as
more to gems, bleeding blueviolet(s), this husband serious to our cadence: that
frigid guitar, our triple degrees, plus, for several languages; this arc
grieving, as pure insanity, our bosses through mood-swings. I love for actions, thrown by fevers, at
torments this Cancer minx: if told to gramps, or holding through grandma, our
sons our instruments. I session
Radha, to elope with Jezebel, at tears pierced through Krishna: this frank
disaster, your horrid eyes, this love frantic to perish: if but for cuts, as
bleeding seas, our disruption through kindness. I lost trails, as blinking passions, to
erupt as cold sulfur: this belching amore, as pure deliverance, while to die
this mystic infinity—that anxious smile, that calm disposition, those thoughts
to forward a person’s reactions. It’s
clever advice, as to portal a thought, while said thought becomes segue—to lead
a fixture, as favored a gram, while fleeing to touch a distant scream. It’s been us, too devious for sights, a
small volt for advice: this tall literature; this achy vein; this wife fraught
but purely composure; where ants dwell, as sequenced that rail, while feeding
upon that june-bug…indeed, to drift, as kissed a turtle, this prince at
manifestation. We know by years, to
forest(s) by seconds, where offers become trite exclusions—this feral breeze,
as war to ice, where daughters bleed our sensibilities. I fret such feelings, while steeped in
interaction, as fueled as one fraught by stillness; this captured ache, as
delivered to perish, if but eternity blinking its favor; but more to miracles,
as alive through friendship, or more a subject rejected by fate: that trenchant
moon; our washing of scalps; this Selsun Blue catastrophe. I’m peaches at cream; I’m tender this
attraction; I’m walking for inner behavior: that pregnant interlude; that
mystic Rubik’s Cube; this Asian by nonchalance: if but behavior, to court
through humility, while, nonetheless, that pack of graphic hyenas—where love is
once, as rivers are incessant, to never for eyes our contact: at truth a
serpent, this valley of spiders, our brains cemented in sphinxes: by gravid
cultures, to know new beginnings, to have for friendship an immortal dream. I’ve thought by us inverted through science to gander at what appears: this mythic
waist; this stem by resonance; that time I died as pulled to life; where mother
screams, as to ruin enchantment, while it becomes a fever to sentence
death—this Jewish pouch; such European seduction; by wings to confess that he
loves as needing submission…whereas, this immortal alarm, by capture a fibbed
charm, to court through innocence a lasting revival—where arcs are blurred, as
to life by wings, to chase through passion another’s advice; in tears to
currents, this cultic survival, fired in souls our nautic flames.
