Sad Poet: Wise Novice

I float a star, thinking deeply, attracted for fallen—those shimmering diamonds, that lengthy agony, that courage at midnight: our old feelings, our cadence wailing, this acacia membrane—as mother lives, such rabid insanity, at miracles forbidden his dreams—this wretched man, this academic man, this theologian—as time dwindles, our knighted rings, our warm but icy fires.  I float a scream, peering at nakedness, charmed by elation: those gloomy eyes, that nighted light, those jasper caves—scratching sheets, remembering sorrows, plagued by resilience: that captive soul, so mortal a scar, while wrenched by alternatives: this month to miseries, this ache to pleasures, our union too precious to seek your face: if but to bars, our metal mattresses, those features I encounter—as driven with ecstasies, or livid at treacheries, by curses blessed as wrestling oaken-cedar: this inner chest, as framed in histories, where momma disappeared: our dear predicament, spurning algebra, pitted for arriving while distant an inner kiss: this second to feelings, as churning emotions, where it felt lazy to utter, I love you: this frantic soul, so calm through needs, a tear so emphatic by silent expression: that mental psych; this leaking psychology; that remote therapist—as chiseled dreaming, our intimate webs, while purposed to throttle for distance.  I welkin a scar; I imagine a swan; I heard with time our wilderness: those jasmine-browns, while fiddling a flute, our symphonies beneath our traumas—this flippant ache, as battled for clearance, to seek for calmness those memories of rage: this deep perception, as speaking potential, to near a man that steadies imbalances: our woodblock portraits; our simplistic clarity; this love for such while seeking something complex: as silent noises, this monster at retreats, this impending battle by deserts.  Its non-existence, as non-for-pleasures, while at pleasures to sense a presence: those short showers, running for typing, gnawing buttered bread: his lazy ego, his dusky thoughts, our melodic swan; as, notwithstanding, such creative happenstance, realizing that most live for self: this type of Form, this lyrical ocean, our veils by purpose to deceive: to love by sights, to engage for rivers, while to unveil baby leviathan: this wretched curse, this man too serious, our standards chiseled away.  We seek for pride, happy to hear, I’m proud of you, at breezy earth full with emptiness: our inner deadlines, our fevers for persons, this radical closure provided by volts; herewith, our souls drift, seeking a mirror made better.  I float a star, leering at signatures, a bit crazed about calligraphy: our metaphoric; our censored pursuits; this wealth by sorrow by keeping composure: as lived a soul, so ancient at rites, purposed as pure advantage: that angry-eyed swan, so delicate but tough, at needs pleading for guarantees: this dread by lights, as practical living, this upshot for questioning knowledge—as vessels create, this steep existence, where most are chasing this inner epitome: those cagey arts, or expressive risqué, peeling with force our walnuts.  I sit alone, listening closer, becoming ghostly: our creeks as whispers, our science as limited, this feeling that humans are chasing more than facts: that burdensome arc, this ceiling, watching, or that four-dimensional mirror—as music begins, at silence so long, while to wonder for whom it plays: (this vault screaming, his mother dying, crawling for reaching but no one came).  I floret life, at desperate lusts, while forbidding self from bridges: this excellent vase, as fragile at arks, to sense with life this Tai Chi excursion: as dead but living, or living but dead, or at peace with life through a solemn discipline—where growth causes for inventory, as souls plummet abysses, while upsurge induces pleasantries—those volume eyes, as seated in analyses, while robbed of something intimate: this losing for winning, as winning for losing, while too much femininity speaks to compartments.  I must to smile, if but self-deception, while they participate at creating something they disdain: those guaranteed margins, our objectives askew, while some remain kind while jogging infancy—those inner apologies, where grays are instruments, for in reality, we result to black and white.