I see
you, this feral invert, those wild wings: our disgraced image, our prideful
hearts, our redeemed cultures: this promise in time, those mental fens, our
delicate thoughts—as men running, our women churning, our seconds flushed by
joy: to live by dying, to die by living, or so content deaths are swarming: at
refined chatter, over China teas, enveloped in ambiguity: those gorgeous
curvatures, our restricted ladders, at terrors concerning something intimate:
our motion brains, those motion images, our molten lava: to sip remarkable,
those rare creatures, while pitching arrows at mediocrity: this fair creation,
this minor fact, while a bit trepid: if but our souls, fleeing their cages, our
balance would run haywire: if but our minds, at every joy, our bodies would
decay: but this is life, an instance of reality, an impetuous mentor: to sense
something delicate, this business attire, our robotic approaches: to see you,
flying gently, while filled with expectations: those angry legs, those violent
arms, or that sky-neck—at vetted consistencies, or an unvetted animal, where
angst forms its hive. I hear you,
this cautious, overworked ingredient: those long hours, those chilled wines,
your morning toffee: at deeper thoughts, at crispy yearnings, while so close to
existence: that partial friend, those partial realities, our hope exhausted
mirrors: but some are mystic, even livid existence, at life with both spoon and
fork: those intimate discussions, outwitting fate, while creating legacies: at
converse with life, debating happenstance, and overwhelming existence: those
rare inventions, this rare reality, while soaring into war-spaces: indeed, an
inner essence, wrangling over magic, tempered for success: Olympian ankles,
mud-ridden, rusty toes, and tattooed calves: this place in Eternity, those
songs so emphatic, our resurrection with contempt. …we would to chance, this life of roses,
this internal clock: our misled souls, churning courageously, while buffing
binoculars: this space in passion, those clashing appetites, while requesting
nothing less: our innovation, our excited presence, those undulations: as
fluttering deliveries, our nervous voices, our waltzing charms: as pulled into
life, while at tetras with life, so invested in existence: as living
proposition, an internal thermometer, running into passion: or aloof and
tugging, yanking at pride, falsely reserved: at souls this region, at something
for adults, while feeling young: our purple clouds, our enveloped worlds, our
taupe and black branches….
…mental
taekwondo, or, namely, a curse, where time stands at your stepstool: this
marvelous curse, this trenchant brush, or this comb for existence: our
remarkable feelings, our wrenching hunches, to relax something pensive: at
Marshal Arts, this intellect movie, our interior cinema: that clear face, our
Neutrogena, our inside-out skin: this familiar space, where exterior is
demanding, while internal clocks are at peace: this year to silence, this
gentle, vicious, outlandish creature: to sin willfully, to repent deliberately,
to turn, churn and demand something breathing: our forces at memories, our
dance with music, at something feeling familiar: those cozy grins, where art
has become symphony: that luggage unpacking, this space healing, if but
eternity this lock: but more to seeing, this vixen in chime, while removed from
existence….
