Mystic Daughter

…so dear to arcs so clear in memory so accursed so accused so darling; our existential ballet our menticide ballad or extended for lost and climbing rectangular clouds; to play with fever to vacuum passion so affected by practicalities; those midnight invasions our cookies and cream or something adults need functionally; this touchstone axiom this axe wheezing or this oaken nightmare—to die forever or to watch gracefully as a partner grows dramatically; our theology on life, our cultures at tyranny, while we meditate doctrine and fly so lowly where marvelous becomes our eyes; this true reality this absence of something naturally as saving his hide so peculiarly; those longer legs, Love, this vassal for churning, Love, or this teleological museum, Love; so occupied so anti-emphases where truth rests upon its own accords; this baseborn poet this internal debt while life was good to give us Jesus—this raja incarnate, this walking energy this fane in bliss to perish—as crucial observers this moment that second to weep asking this cup be passed; our cloven loyalties as so enlove while a body knows multiple hands; such mercy in relationships, such drought and determination, while something eats producing behaviors; this vox in essence this miracle come sunrise while so close a man might surrender; this seat for driving this opera for motivation or chants so steep assisting prayers; our rescued sensation this feeling for something exclusive to love and adore a daughter more than most humans; such inrush and cushion such cooking for holidays our feast coming so close so soon; while cooking with mother or flicking creams where stepfather is making stuffing….

It becomes a true war, this secret I must reveal, as the closer I get to you the more the mind is at friction; this wanderer of lights this mental insignia this twist, turn and treason; those vehicles by mystery those geishas in China where a man is so lost in fantasy; this deep truism, in this land of fury, a person might become a cartoon to escape; but dear to benediction, while a liar is speaking about touché, our lives our cultures or those future soirées: so mystique your existence so distinguished your genetics while needing deep investment in your development—those tired clichés or our abandoned orison where Love is pure beauty.

I felt you those seconds this energized necklace or those few minutes so into that sphere; to agree at moments or to resolve a feeling while so esoteric our spaces become blurred; those jacinth skies those turquoise insanities while most people will settle for adjacent happiness; aforetime, and more time, while many are disputing pastime; at aught beautiful or succumbing to practices where something familiar might need a swig of spices; this mental bridge this mental daughter where a man might build a false interim—our nethermost cries in this region of locusts while a grasshopper grew into a gorilla; so reft of you but maintaining highly while force would be counterproductive; such vocality in silence such reach in absence or such a curse to our families; or better, and this is honesty, a man regrets his actions and in private swears to deep empathetic change; indeed, but only Father and only Son, such mythical mystique—such lithic pictures.