We
become livid, driven as incarcerated, peering at black beauty—if but by
tortures, to conquer theatre, our waves seeping into strangers—this mortal web,
as immortal charm, our swans deeply at treasures; as but to dreams, our prisons
blazing, our terrors escaping—this tender abuse, as music would feather, as but
a kernel bleeding instincts. We
unfasten, at treacherous life, steering for sprouting a bit far advanced: our
inner parents, this wish by wells, if but to survive a new tare of dejection—as
scarred afar, adrift those centuries, as fleeing for bawling through
deserts. We shiver doorways, to
outlive cave-domes, where mystics acquaint our souls. I love forbidden, as to receive forbidden,
while at search for pathways—this frigid self, to encompass by charms, at
mercies to invoke our wings. Our
tender havoc, to come to strangers, a tare bleeding insanity: those mortal
questions, by immortal responses, if time is gentle our storm; where mother
endorses, this course of actions, while grandparents ponder redemption. I ache a star, at furious deliverance, as
moving in cadence: that trumpet Asian; that cagey Caucasian; that remnant as a
young Black swan—as dreaming life, too afraid to conquer, as father pushes for
triumphant revivals: this place of pains, enshrined within, while this mystic
calculates those incipient concaves.
I waft asunder, those parts to brains, at sudden this father’s legacy;
as once to dance, infuriated a scream, by Rite Aid his last liquors; indeed, a
myth, while fleeing through traffic, arranged in thoughts our mortal agendas:
that tragic fire, at eyes by kitsch, to find with sorrow this immortal
abrasion: that achy life, those feral wings, our dreams broken through
silence. It could to storms, this
life of webs, while mother senses a sullen swan; and never by culture, or
furthermore by deaths, to rekindle this incipient passion. We wend afar, trekking marsh-havens,
flickering young mayflies—as born to curses, peering at grandparents, while to
die such sullen secrets: to filch a passion, peering at father, while father is
aloof a cagey situation: that faraway clashing, that inner trespass, this shy
music: if life would live, to have for freedom, this swan at internal
peace. I loved mother, as sickly a
soul, for (mines) broke a southern dove; so hell was prominent, as love was
forced, where mother wanted eternity: that bleeding grave, that mystic
suggestion, this mother ubiquitous our psyches—to see with vengeance, this
lifelike arcade, while floored and nearly senseless. I must confess, this love for mania, while
provoked by a rhythmic cage; as, too, this immortal spin, at love for multiple
intrigues, while too at large to escape officials; indeed, our mothers as brave,
for loving something broken, while at fevers to live immortal feelings; but
hell to deaths, as deaths to hells, where love triumphs our civil war. I feel supernal, at mention a psych, as
one indebted to secrets; as, too, this mythic Zenist, combined by this mystic
name; as torn his thoughts, while never a confirmation, while to believe she
flourishes. I ache a swan, as to love
a swan, while to swivet her mother’s first response: that gravid pain, as
swelled her eyes, at touch with so many lies; therewith, was distrust, those
tears to roll, at that midnight moment; but earth to reality, that step for
fathers, while to love this immortal swan. I know for sorrow, as one well
equipped, this mansion as akin to folklore; but hell to passions, as heaven to
passions, while to live such contradiction: to hear it in brains, free-flowing
this meter, to ponder that far but alive image: that facial imprint, as it
could but love, if but endorsed by family: this controlling matriarch, this
bashful grandfather, that cousin losing for winning while mother has
wings. I’m all to mammon, where
gramps has sequence, while mother flickers for flying: that turn of fevers,
according to yoga, this mystic at woes concerning a psych; but graves to
passions, as passions to graves, while graves flurry into immortal friends;
where swans attract, this fruit of passage, to incur with life this immortal
tremble.
