…where
times are gentle, when times are humble, we form inroads: our lavish hearts,
whistling its tune, and pruning inner gardens: our days living young, our souls
filled with hunger, our valleys wrought by shrubberies: this life of song, this
tale about dance, and those orchard witnesses: our moments with light, our
Divine parachutes, our thoughts decorated intimately: such precious pictures,
such delicate rosaries, where affection comes naturally: as opposed to
cringing, such deep intensity, such removals from self: our amplified dreams,
our charms with wine, where life has fulfilled something gentle….
I
tear remembrance, peering at harbingers, at thoughts to something appealing:
our delicate creatures, our terms by happiness, where elation filmed our joys:
that leprechaun feeling, our souls with gold, at something too deep to measure:
those rubric statues, those statuesque gazes, or mere mention to infuriating
passion: those mobile whispers, those midday charms, at something too intricate
to digest: those oranges so sweet, those plums so tangy, our breads with cream-cheese:
our morning brunch, at terrific cadence, where poetry has become life: those
meters accented, our iambic music, each stanza complimenting passion: our
melodic harps, those creative feelings, our anxious probing: if but to sing, if
but by opera, our arias speaking Egyptian: our minds at play, our beating hearts,
our recounting films.
…if
but our souls, this pensive environment, and those inquisitive feelings: those
nights by grandeur, our evenings daydreaming, plus, our fantast ‘transmitters:
that intimate second, those intimate beginnings, at such wrenching terror: as
life becomes its teachings, where adoration becomes its resentments, while,
albeit, enthrallments, our compass has suggestions: our violin, our screaming
affection, our whistling compassion: our brows kissed, our toes massaged, our
intimacies kneaded—as flying missiles, our recanted woes, while our aches have
become virgins: such abandonment, those fairer stars, or put deeply, those
unlocked potentialities: our free-flowing portraits, this tampered vault, those
metal doors swinging open: at passionate inflection, at brushes with avenges,
our tarps bewildered by paints: those flying sonnets, those engrossing
emotions, those patient hummingbirds: at beauty’s cave, at art’s life, at
tension’s clutch….
I
casual something born, such realization, while embedded in bolts: that torrid
motion, those torrent skies, such intimate terrors: as given for use, or using
while giving, to feel affronted by innocent slight: this need for something
perfect, the weight of this need, and
those horrifying requirements: our achy Haikus, our flowers winking, our
settlements becoming compelling: those symbolic mountains, those trenchant
secrets, as unveiled and mesmerized by insecurities: our nurturing voice-box,
our ravished pulsations, while dearly at something acute: such rich awareness,
our minds typing our futures, our souls struck by ecstasy: this fairer feeling,
this unusual closeness, this tingling relaxation: our aches with deep emotion,
our tyrannies abated, and our willingness to negotiate: this willing of intentions, such pitted
participation, while too hurt to suggest those reasons: at rich chaos, at old
pains, or confronted by old realities: our vows so gentle, our commitment so
overt, our insecurities so coupled: therewith, this wrenching investigation, or
that subtle charm, where anyone can pose as a threat: our Kingdom of Passion,
this becoming by Oneness, at inner scriptures realizing Church: our last tear,
our first investment, and giving with avenges soaring into warfare.
