But
winds such sweet seesaws by love until death becomes warlike or activation, by
cross-fire towards existence or mirage. The sweet destiny of sonnets, so thwart
by humanness, so accustomed to sensual fires. By tale to self by madness
disclosure or so far blank it means remorse. Maybe by limerick to chuckle or
maybe free verse to cry while agony just assailed a villanelle: shredding
manuscripts, so distressed by baggage, while a cheat-sheet is filled with
couplets. What by its animal the furious creature so much an extreme elegy; to
flow by tenderness or to die while livid or tugging at fane and art or alive by
ropes. Our thirsty, near hung ballad or epic a nightmare seeking beauty or so
dislodged or so afloat a mere illness might suffice. Such content handicaps
such seam if we might or justice so chaotic, we nurture hemlock; the
sestina-vase our repetitions or assonance and violence but it was so rewarded—our
exiled curse our moving devastation where one might partake while begging for
clearance. What by its monster as so
addictive while one can’t wait to suffer? this Jesus Piece this realized
upheaval where satisfaction comes by fleetingness; those holy leaflets or
permanent mind-shifts where in private one might feel visitations: by
otherness the uncanny friendship while so intimate with what it has created;
such irritability or breaking from feelings while confined to an opened door:
those posts or these unlatched windows while deeper design is harboring
dissonance; so dysfunctional with nary a sign where the poet has become such crucifixion. Wherefore,
were loses sweet ignescent tragedy
the world-acclaimed rumor but fury or chastity where it afflicts or frustrates;
those incomplete thoughts or fragmented whispers or pure profanity when
channeled by interior; this wrenching furnace this designated arrival while
souls are smelted by dear refinement. Such living haikus or so metaphorical
where similes are often hiding in texts, to imagine travesty or so tragic by
lights.
