I step
into mazes, I’ve participated with deaths, or reformation the warlocks.
It was
chameleons or damages or witches; Love was too much, such satin ivory, such
susceptible heart-sparrows; to desert the skies so underground it dies while
mountains blossom maniacs; such as monks feuding or treacherous brooding while
Love is too damn smart. I said that, a furious fever, a flower in mourning, but
a day ago I loved you.
too
fickle to dance or too enlove to seek peace where art re-blossoms come June; so
many magnets such deeper repulsion or a man reprimanding ghosts; by bottles
come evening or pledges come sundown while late night wandering whereabouts.
How have I lost
wages so determined to win while Love is held by such reproach; our darling
lungs our soul-song so pictured by seraphs; but so aggressive or so free while
passion is never mistaken; to sit in silence a bit angered at Love, for Anguish
is not entertaining guts; the market places, such variety, while Love must
taste every fruit; as longer waves or augmented violence so cursed so gothic
but Love is ambrosia; but a myth I sell, this tale about easiness, where two
are so indebted to their love; as never to die as never crooked but nearly enslaved
to the well-beloved.
I walk places even
passing alleys where I regress to decades long ago; the season is pictureless
but I see items like a sink across from an old wagon; or body long mirrors
where it’s cracked while a man sees three-to-four frames of himself; I come to,
feeling pavement where I thought it disappeared; but Love is kind or Love is
happy or Love feels the heaviness of her society; our yeses meaning time-space
our noes meaning give me room or to meet while canines bark and silver floods
the sceneries; indeed, more that place or more those excellent winds while
knowing about you truly shocked the naïve soul.
It seems
too much where
one
is selling wholesomeness or
titanic
passion has crushed arteries; it
comes
by sweetness where
words
so slither while most wives
refuse
to even listen; as
protecting
its root, aborted
too
fragile while sometimes
nothing
is taking place; as a hard
rule
to fathom, for it means so much, while illusion is prettier; as in he never
tried, it can’t be essence, he must be off.
