It lives as mystery, or tugged by reality,
our perplexing experiences: our morning cloves, our midday sandwich, or
midnight juice: at departure points, afloat within
dreams, so close this abstract scream: while flying through mirrors, to
sudden this life, where we forfeit our inclinations: for it couldn’t be senses,
as unprovoked, while it must be senses.
I fiddle a pebble, lost in miracles, and
abased by old beliefs: those weeping perceptions, our clingy impulses, or our
jumpstart religiosities: as realness was ever our issue, this wealth of
gravity, where it felt remarkable to re-explain our earrings: our bold force,
those seven junctures, or our five dynamics: those feelings spiking, this shy
sky-haven, or those incredible axioms—where nights appear, while chasing our
pillows, where critical thought divorces our wagers.
…if but to breathe, this mortal’s
infatuation, as we perish our immortalities: this waxing sensation, this close
reality, or this ability to fly: those screams; those tentative perfections; if
but our needs by existence: our relaxed heart-caves, while pushing towards
rejection, where sudden this gratifying leap: this required puzzle, this mental
flesh, or our itchy dry-grass: to soar this reunion, this coming into mirrors,
this inner person communicating signs: this mountain of sunshine, this Promised
Reality, or such beauty those cubs cleaving to mother….
…if but to achieve—this essence in
reservoirs, or iridescence becoming concrete laws: this fuel for realities,
this inner rush, or this sight as moving in stillness: our atom spirits, this
heart’s construction, where something scientific had been utilized: those
terrifying nights, this unveiling of mysteries, or our avalanches reducing
enigmas to systematic applications: if but to presume, as internalized
creators, while some things are hard to kaleidoscope….
