We have dreams, those inner arias…those churning
cadenzas: those mental oceans…by grace a symphony, by treasures a lasting
feeling: such magnet personalities, as rarely this wing, affected by this seeming explosion: at reeling arcs, an
heirloom by focus, our daughters to stairwells.
We felt a spell, by inexorable measures, as appetites become insatiable:
that proud river, those meadow brooks, this galloping towards queens—as
masculinity, sudden for humble, at souls dining ecstasies: our chivalrous
knights, our alibis for nonchalance, this trail vanishing through orchards. (It’s ancient, Love, this feud through
dreams, to seduce through maladies: our grits with eggs, our pastrami fries,
our memories as moments: that golden turkey, that dark pink ham, our
magnificent stuffing: this trove by treasures, such warmth by gazes, this fire
when pondered as genetics: our paradoxical moons, our ensouled equations, our
camp-flame conversations—this chocolate cake, that pumpkin pie, this French
vanilla icecream; indeed, this cultic edifice, this cryptic dream, such
occult-like motions: as skies change, fettered to purple adventures, our
tummies filled with day-cares). We
crochet words, while fed through
meanings, where Gregorian Chants echo: this truss to souls, this trust to,
Love, our terrors abated by kindness: as ontic utopias, our myriad interests, where life becomes somewhat gray:
this need for extinctions, this want for pleasure, this pain as losing its curse. Its masquerades, by mirrored ideals, shadowed
by insecurities: this chase for closure, as knitted perfection, to capture one
unthreading destiny: our earth to shakes, our souls to quakes, our fates
becoming evident education: herewith, are dreams, this crystallized swan, that
Porsche’s esteem—as, too, this Bugatti texture, seated in excellence, to find
this need for passion: that chasing sun, this inner nightingale, that village
of mystics.
By quixotic dreams, at tender affections,
spacing through our cosmos: this voice to passions, escaping our guts, flying
into orbits: such casual presence, our seconds to paradise, our pregnant
elations; where skies become days, as nights become mornings, that horrid scent
of raccoons: indeed, but a second, at terrible pleasures, to realize increments
by age.
I address life, those myriad trysts, this
semi-religious ecstasy: our quasi-raptures, our memoire confessions, our blank
canvases: wherefore, those tears by lights, sudden by satori, secerning through
feelings: that cause by one, or that
excellent vase, by chills to render
inner ghosts.
We adore bakeries, our emotions as
delicacies, our dreams as formed through experience: those bedside novels,
those sublime philosophers, this feeling aroused through our intestines; as beautiful
creatures, persevered through fibers, this present poet at tenses with silence.
I set twilight, embedded at noonday, this
atypical mesmerism: if but to taste, this liquid light, our feelings becoming
participants: herewith, our torn confusions, as acting with, but not sparked from: this
chasing silence, as provoking crevices, this honeysweet war-care: therefore, we
paddle, those waterless canoes, seated in deep sleep—that miracle hut, this
thinking frenzy, our caricatures becoming normal.
We tend to children, if sounds are sweet,
while struck at those faceless reflections: this time to taste joys, this
moment to reflex upon experience, while sensing this mystic undertone: those
undulations, sectioned as series, suggested as realities: those musical
figures, embracing our schisms, where love becomes this type by pruning: that
patch of begonias, those secluded strawberries, this inner voice convicted that
love resounds in every sentence.
