Those
days as of late, those tides pouring into suggestion, our somber sullen
acrimony; to outsoar sorrow, these waking hours, such nectar for therapists;
our minds held hostage, our ransom at boundaries, where infusion comes slowly;
but dice are gnawing, our time for ministry, while attempting something
balanced; sky-whales, humble madness, or something entering and disappearing;
our daughters these nights, our films recording, such nectar bitter animosity;
our coming anniversary, those months as simple years, our circuits seeming more
mystery than concrete; to afford for melancholia, our fantast lovelock, to
realize it comes naturally. I grab magazines, peering into crystal maybes,
given to something akin to consumers; this want for destiny, this mean
allocation, while feeling a bit displaced; this music for winners, this harpoon
for losers, or this rollercoaster for imbalance; chasing feral winds, gusts in
midstream, at perfect sadness; this familiar location, this friendly essence,
where it vanishes as I chase; fireplace romance, enchanted grottoes, plus, a
letter tossed to islands; to meet and dine, to dance and party, as deceased
creatures trying hard to live; an opus in us, another child in us, where
realized another hope in us; but life has cactuses, and fresh water gators,
plus, a host of gnats; squinting tightly, holding to every infraction, while
elsewhere, pleading for forgiveness; desert thunder, deep frustration, while
becoming something softly.
I took
to envisioning, pierced by concentration, and glowing off and on; this
personality, those vital sparks, something in concerto; our supposed prelude,
our damaged beliefs, so permanent claiming impermanence. I smelled gardenias,
studied a lotus, while wrapping a blue daisy; those rippling rivets, this agony
with reigns, our instincts pained and shuttering; pottery black ceramics,
cosmic situation, afforded ravens and woodwork; at churning hearts, eating
calamity, too thrown to speak life. While creatures at habits, lusty for
opera-airs, we desire something immortal; our closest morsel, our reaping guts,
this essence referred to by love; mango peach, porcelain blue, or lavender
gray; by tiger stealth, or cheetah speed, those days our animation; this fair routine,
like seagrass, so accustomed to flowing-freely.
Sugar
apple gin, or sober delights, eating snake fruit; those inert seconds, pulling
for dear weather, refused by every element inside of us; those dragon eyes, this
gila monster gait, far more inclined to live; those shimmers, or pure glitter,
while a man looks too intently; exotic Scarlett, or African moon, at begonias
and alpine aster; but days are saddened, an effusion of ripened feelings, while
chased by evening harmonies; our lightfast miseries, so enlove with children,
while some weren’t blessed enough. Those uneasy ways, our kiwi diamonds,
fighting it but drawn to it; our elephant ears, or fish tentacles, upon coconut
wishes; cashew beige eyes, or pearly blues, at random heavenly brown miracles;
this life in us, bleeding heart-twine, so engaged in memories.
I forgot
the tremors, over holy interests, while redeeming something deliberate; to
never trust, or trusting one’s gut, or to trust by capacity of what one can
give; our constructed Alcatraz, our wishful panaceas, our voltage and rockets
inclined more to suffer; our captured rhythms, our terrified realities, where
one is willing it freely; to give pure ice, followed by warm stars, while
needing nothing but sensorium; those rare cases, this fair channel, while
knowing it got a little too loud; as comes with incantation, tiles by agony,
and confusion internally. Those days by naturality, these ashes feeling comic,
by memory or devotion.
