It's
impossible, to exit particular caskets, where days proffer our disagreements. To
once be there, such movement in there, where sudden hatred sparks disgusts. Try
to fathom, try to see, after deprivation comes morality. So dead to us, so
struggled in us, while parents seem so distressed in us. I have a side thought,
it’s pushing buildings, where Love seems tangible. This fair debate, this
fairer illusion, or hesitating to say, Delusion. But our well is filled,
our hells are concretized, and so much pain prevailed. So, no, to
forgiveness, and no, to redemption, while no, to a hassling,
curly headed swan. Our days purple blood-shine, our nights comfort and
uneasiness, so left for dead, so curious those feelings, while passion was
living despite tragedy. This hard place, this rescued entity, where illness has
come it churns. But terrific in pregnancy, while exploring horizons, such a voice
answering in ecstasy. This probed internally, this killing frustration, but
ever so discreetly. Similar discomforts, heinous mind-glares, or treacherous
eye-gook. Our magic invaded, as never an opportunity, where layers are so thin.
But Love seems appropriate, and Love is educated, but Love, too, is riddle and
frenzy. So insecure, so free-blazing, while it hurts to share this legacy. As never
a confession, as never a thought, but one second, looking so intently, and
feeling insecure. This space in us, this cure in absolution, while fleeing this
concrete atmosphere. Our battles, Love. Our screams, Fire One. Where others
wash what stood in murky waters. As regenerated creatures, warring with habits,
or looking at something invented. This perfect impression, this musical poetry,
at prose and winds and cauldrons. Our dice shifted, our moons agitated, while
reality knows a deeper infraction.
One flower,
Love—this is what drives men, engulfed by distressing, pulverizing and
compatible attributions. To come to graves, stressed and ashamed, where Love
tussles by clarity. Unborn pleasures, so offered by Love, our pond in bloody
shark splinters. Those gazes seeping, this miracle bleeping, our pillows her
fragrance. Leaping in rest, reciting our dreams, uttering, I love you. This
bodily essence, this mental substance, while Love seems so actualized. Our false
feelings, our devoted feelings, or something in-between. Such courage to exist,
but neither a soul, to prevent inveterate habits. This twelve-year-old pain,
this thirty-year-old diary, so religious by forty. A tress such scents, a
thresh such gifts, or running into a slew of therapists. This behavioral academia,
this woman I don’t confess, while problems would be similar; for pain is
dynamite, and flame is addictive, while a body has a memory: those touch
sockets, this ecstasy net, so cursed to hold to each lover. To dare our minds,
needing fury, so claimed in those arms.
I
saw us dying, I needed us living, plus, I was addicted to this body. This fool’s
confession, this daft and darkened moon, while pining for another rocket. So lost
in this, to rethink monogamy, while analyzing animals. So akin this way, but so
restrictive this way, while one would commit to a lie. Our silken bodies,
walking away, where total intimacy would prove a challenge; for how to forgive,
and how to trust, as two so skilled. This sneezing thing, this memory thing,
where sex slowly wanes. But it felt terrific, prior to its curse, and former
this island of commitment. Where deceit is required, and leaving is required,
as damned forever to lose something bodily.
I saw
perfection, in something imperfect, but pain seemed so oblivious. It wasn’t
faithful, but it wasn’t hell, and I enjoyed those things she taught me. Our evenings
out, such a glorious creature, albeit, ownership was up for debate. Our steak
fajitas, this old habit, but we pretended it as a first event. Those Asian
eyes, this porcelain flesh, or granny tending to our little miracle.
