Be there at pains, explaining famish, to
morph a desert-oasis: our gravel elixirs, our permanent flux, this feeling by
rivers—as seated a dungeon, laughing at sorrows, awakened by energies: our
velvet ceilings, our battles with rain, such beauty in anchoring our
language—this violet film, our 3D glasses, our in-soul’d daffodils. I’m hesitant, Love: if but to fly, released
of bestiality: this hectic cycle, warring leviathan, at cheers that esoteric
glare: this hare running, this fox chasing, our squirrels leaping
branches. I used to love, as love was
colorful, our bright-eyed acrylic souls—where gestures enchant, this fleeting
movement, unless raffled to passions: relentless lure, or casual pash, this
need for reaching—while sky-cut, at flux with trespass, an opened box: that
clown fleeing, as abased with time, to tulip a field as rising. I still love, pardoned by cultic eyes,
chasing invisible butterflies—that ladybug watching, if sighted to purpose, as
sorted a steep agony—those bluish scars, that sunrise daisy, this train for
sights by rural travesties: that ache aflame, our sky-adventures, our days as
entrenched in silence. I read a feeling,
too at cadence to passion, at internet pastime.
I felt a dream, as dreams are voiced, severed for crawling through
soulquakes: our walking mirrors, our trenchant psychologies, to come through
tragedy a bit lost: those seaplane thoughts; rapt’d in Vogue, explained to self as newness—that wavering essence, at
closeness so tender, our lives visiting those churches—as children live, to
want for moral fabric, or those ethics cemented in hemp: our casual
longevities, our souls at detox, our pure-clay masks: if but to cherish, our
country jeans, peering at father’s reflection: this inner psyche, as plural
wings, affected for touched at silence: that empty room, at such activities,
our running water—to bathe at aches, seated in shallow-depth, pondering our
make-ups: as adrift at chimes, palming a firefly, at flame a second at
realization: our glow-through nights, as days exchange harmonies, to fiddle
with thoughts this deepened self—as lost that feeling, at returning to life,
affected by purities those metal gates…exhilarating ashes, this flux through
time, this dye by souls for newness: if but to life, to promise luxury, as
spent eternally; but life is passion, this cementing of sensitivities, as to
claim but satisfaction—where strengths fetter, as if but humanity, to cry with
arms gripping frantically: that steep security, as raveled in bars, to come to
essence speaking of passions: our facial cleansers; our denim jackets; our
faces pointed towards that Narrow
Path. [It felt good to laugh, as
those days no laughter, as we must confess]: that inner envelope, opened by
strategies, desiring something we admire: those myriad voices; our spacial
enchantments; such fury hushing for clarity.
I felt a novel idea, our pictures in fresco, our adventure
immortalized—as fevered anxiety, or clashing tides, to frantic with life this
tapestry. I admired a curse, while
revising a blessing, at cadence this inner swan: those legs running, that mind
at capacities, our engines revved for sitting at stillness: our hybrid souls, clinging
to ideals, to find that such are hard to knit perfectly—that casual storm, as
knocking for kicking, to feel it knocking back: such gray purpose, to find but
heat, lost at some melody: this chasing rain; those country trails; this
orchard of fruits…to courage this lackness, while involved in steepness, to
adventure as one a soul for raptures. [Perception
shatters, at wonders a light, at caves bathed in soot—that dream unraveled, as
sentenced to oblivion, at curses laughing of old—that place at hearts, to hear
that essence, to awaken sitting at stillness].
