In
disarray or an inside hammock at something needing order; inside of us such
sweet treachery where one never debates it. Or tragedy bliss so poignant but null
at tears and sacrifice.
I
have
adored fire
by
richness and courage
so
the ache burns.
To become distrusts this
layer by thinness this curse into itself—those selfie orchards this fruitage
gin or days running to you; but it means so little to have died so young where
adulthood mimics those catacombs.
I love you becomes its
grave while holding to pride; to efface others, to remain unborn, while people
have decoded your aura; this fury so beautiful those deadzones so gorgeous—but Psalm
to numbers or living to Angels while it seems an understanding; such might with
flame or symbols unexplained while disputing an A atop a V surrounding a G. This
life-jaw, those wet blizzards, into something too cultic to readjust; by
ownership, or nothing at all, where a deadman woke up, made love, and went back
to comfort.
I
have lived disorder debating God’s death while abandoned by science; a mental
monk a heaving funeral at something ancient or mystic; sewing decisions at
cognitive dissonance and reviewing over ten claims; such purposed behavior, to
behave if-and-only-if, where any given day is hell-city.
Sunbirds and
teacups those early evenings
feuding
seas and black-crosses.
Something
absurd becomes government and something pure is vetoed while political scientists
are taking polite stances; such consequence to meet, such death to love, while
a man is sick for his Sisyphus.
To become freedom
by freedom’s turn requires rebellion;
as
to adore your curse is to reduce those joys
while
resistance must become religion.
Reface
me gently, angle my gaze, remove me from utter confusion (We’ll call it love).
