Become Dragons

I was a boring lad, at havoc’s life, perusing upon beauties—this radical fire, baptized so early, our fathers' sprinkling water: this sight for mention, that mysterious soul, so distant our lives.  I saw paraphernalia, crushed glass instruments, and incurred vehement wraths: this casual nonchalance, pitted in memories, pausing at a cherry patch: those loquat frenzies, this strawberry lemonade, this box of Pecan Sandies; indeed, our spines, livid through adventures, our living-rooms fraught by addicts.  I nibbled plums, frozen for tarnished, adapted to ghetto realities—that backgammon laughter, those dominoes slamming, this scent as abrasive concerns: that inner child, destroyed for ruined, perceived as this future warrior—for thoughts were  battles, this essence secerning Blackness, this unstable affair—where moods shift, at mention those roots, accustomed to something controversial.  We shift.

I realized passions, disguised in formalness, while alert this fire arising within: those liquid spirits, this trip to New Zealand, this Amish as latent religiosities: if torn through flights, examining features, at perils this moral philosophy: this gusset treadmill, those brackets closing, this frantic behavior: those spoken rhythms, that inner cadence, where priests must repent.  Shift!

I adore feelings, as losing feelings, a tad bit hebetated: this inner poltergeist, this zeitgeist affair, those lethargic seconds at pure clarities: our tender dynamics, this future to existence, this cave as ablaze’d a current’s frustration: this seeping smile, that steep resistance, this feeling as one invading—this marshy county, those blueberry novels, this romantic high-life—where Love is vocal, while adored as silent, to reckon this need to hear explosions.  I’ve said little, perfected at this, perchance—our ripples as reservoirs enhancing perceptions: this reached acuity, that palm of energies, our songs so sad this second at happiness: as pure concerns, this voice as rivets, this snapshot perfecting but glimpses: if but to life, as loves a fool, those years to casual persistence.

…and love becomes roses, tilted in vases, our tables that space of petals—as falling ambitions, reamed for passions, at membrance this looming whale…as time is crucial, as love by failing, to render affections as remote green pastures: this fluid dream, as strutting insanities, to feather with life this disappointment…those mental oases, those grand performances, this want to perish as feeling ecstatic: our inner coolness, poked for prodded, our linchpins tampered by forces: this feral gown, running through russet tulips, reaching for palming hummingbirds—that arc splayed, slaughtered in fragments, testing for surprising our awakening seconds.  We Shift.  

We say so much, as surprising our overviews, where precision struggles to breathe: that juicy watermelon, those sugary honey-buns, this apple as to appease our conscienceness; but truth to Love, this ladybug beauty, this feminine bud—as flowers a tear, dripping into ears, our frantic responses—those short molehills, this extravagant centerpiece, our seconds to fire-caves: to see with love, this tinge bleeding, as erupting honesties—as, nevertheless, sifted at turns, pursuing something harmonious: our days to flying, as feeling pains, where a warm embrace caresses our spirits: this languid voice, those sky-carnet eyes, that dimension protruding, therein: while never for feelings, as forever to brains, while something operates within: that second at Cancun, those hours at airports, this returning while feeling good concerning practices: our souls to canyons, peering at Promised Land, but fortified from entrance.  We season this feeling, alive with laughter, so exposed that fancy becomes measureable: our days to Italy, our thoughts to Water Falls, this essence in lights as remote passions.