It
was hellish, our hourglass, such immutable time: at fair skinned trespass,
running through traffic, hanging by chandeliers: our open Book, this professed
examination, this hermeneutical diary: as anti-this, or anti-that, to sudden
upon Caesar: such treachery, such worship, as one concerned with charisma: this
fragile invention, this conquest for prowess, or tortured alive for bones: this
plague, this curse, our lives worth little in coins: our battles, our
daughters, our loses: at small forces, with such deliberate malice, peering for
sinking into something malignant: at Love casually, if but this secret, I enjoy your company: herewith, this
slight grimace, this faithful galaxy, to rely upon chaos sparkled with glory: our
petit complaints, while Love is grand a mother, where grandparents interrupt at
seconds: this demanding womanhood, this deliberate personhood, to have at least
three lives: at one with devotion, at another with healing, at another with
breaking freedom: our broken ambition, those ambivalent replies, while
practiced at funny business: where hearts throb, as energies break curses,
while blessed for each daughter: this remarkable ability, to feel like
dungeons, as to easy those eyes longing for perfection: this wonderful,
misunderstood giant, this fantastic peacekeeper, as souls roll during a.m.
hours: this soulkeeper, dependent upon life-force, in order to keep from
screaming at Jesus: this Ghost war, those evidential truths, or this permanent,
do-or-die secret: our children cringing, over pumpkin-pie, while we top it off
with French vanilla: those wafers with cheese, this Eucharist with damage, or
long live this priest acting suspicious: at trenchant concerns, or nunnery
specials, to envelope a package sent airborne.
I’d
lie to say, Life, I’d die to say, Pain, this crucial force: as livid and
crunching, or radical and civilized, while Love was great from a distance: this
palatial sinner, this sinning with purpose, if but to slice a middle world:
those crazed midnights, this ravished daylight, where promise seems elementary:
our dying machines, this soot with sacrifice, this battle upon solemn grounds:
to win arcs, or to torch hearts, where redemption comes in a certain churn:
that mother grieving, that daughter assuming responsibility, or this man deep
in retinal prayer: as seeing particles, but needless as faint, to topple over
into granny’s lap: our mothers at war, this conglomerate of feelings, while
perfect in but those eyes: this crucial force, this hellish need, while
apologetic but at ruins: that one song, that one blast, this fatal misnomer: at
terrible concerns, as lies come so close, to attempt memory a thousand urns: if
but for deaths, or casual grains, while Love was so perfect: a man’s ache, a
man’s damage, where it felt good!
I
imagine perfection, this boring creature, this losing vessel: if but such
perfection, as loyal to us, where rivers thrust our Ghost: to grab a pop, to
soda an injury, while speaking about seeds: a mother’s pride, a father’s
mother, where children are loved: this shaky pyramid, this falling phoenix,
this tangled sphinx: at thoughts with blame, at blame with penchants, where
remorse seems consequential: so more to lies, so deep it pillages, but holding
strong to illogical sequences: as for I run, as for I gun, as souls creep into
existence: that vivid picture, those liquid butterflies, this inner chameleon:
as mother lived, to marry a son, while two had a misinformed child: this
genetic catastrophe, this mental niece, this emotional stepmother: indeed, to
add to hilarity, while visiting our young eagle, where falcons are condemning:
that tiny flight, this inner riddle, where inborn souls disperse from
abstracts: as longing for concrete, in a world of liquids, to come by age afraid
to speak: those ravished hearses, this body flipping, to mirror granny’s
deaths: therewith, this angry mother, this feudal father, as granddad proffers
excuses!
