I leave
those worries or carry nervousness while feeling atwitter. Those marvels we
claim or our needs for miracles into darker situations; our hope or screams our
minds or graves where most die by negligence; so imputed, such by cadence,
where fear was prominent. Those caged addicts or those weary lieutenants or
nights reclaiming our sanity.
I must
understand by this cave of fire
this
furious winter; abased at moments, so utterly ashamed, lost or found in diaries;
such angry justification, or pitted the base of miracles, while
love
was draped by nylon; a crystal zinnia or a pantomime begonia while minds nibble
mushrooms—this
unfair
conclusion, this interior centerpiece, at multiple resurrections; or sweeter
avenues, or awkward centipedes, after something seeming but missing;
such
feuds with selves, such distinguished personalities, while love is both raw and
sophisticated; into those charities
or
running marathons, while Love only thinks of miseries.
sun-lithic
sacrifice or spirit-petroglyphs after something I idealize—those terrific
inconsistencies this outlandish crush while so emphatic such disconnection.
at feelings that
rise or treacheries and guts while Love might so much as to live—this fair
breakage this unfair dying if but to attain to suffocation; our imbalances or
terror-souls after this unmeasured mirror.
but Love is
herself and men crave her after something that feels mythic; a dozen hats plus
a mixture or plus helium; as creatures so untidy or fevered by inconsistencies
while it was life for Love to win.
I never
salute you, by crazy crayons, while wondering what existence was: I see you having
fun, or designing a website, or pictures of sanity and its feelings. I see you
watching, adjusting elements, or stirring a platinum portrait; but a gentle or aggressive
or reluctant but freezing passion—or tales about subsistence, this section in
operas, if but those clear or clean creatures.
I remember
this loss, something so pillar in me, while a man laughed at my mirror; it was
infuriating the way it danced where one wonders what the great ado is
concerning; to adore innocence where innocence perished as such a revelation to
poets: our existential apocrypha—or wings by a delusion—or seeing what couldn’t
be channeled. This person so esteemed, so filled with arrogance, while he took
great pleasure in receiving or taking; so many years to become snakelike where
every activity is distraught; as trusted by nothing, even incapable of trust
where some are most wretched a churn towards cellos.
To implore
on some account those sacred agendas; those few in excellence while becoming
intolerant while seeking balance; this internal agility as to dine with violins
or to sound a triumphant trombone; such agony in that loss, a man knowing war,
where physicality is adjudged by juries; so coarse it hurts, or so passionate
but torn, after sky-fury by aggravation.
