I need love from
love, like lions need comfort, like humans need trees. some fable, according to
fire, an interior chamber. pure impurities, assigned to myself, simply sweet
nectar. mirrors without faces, skies without horizons, deaths without the
sting. an unreal portrait. it isn’t true. most are chained to promise. I’m
missing bearings, essentials are unfit, I approach looking for the punchline. it’s
unsteady steadiness. irregular regularities. mainly, it’s shocking,
distressing, mandatory—to look vigilantly, to count inconsistencies, from a
person harder on trusting. where one is adoring, made a miracle, raised from a
good family … it seems painful, an illegitimate child will wrestle life away.
mythic or factual, we shutter to make a claim; while one is too much fever, certain
magnitude, a miracle minded pleasure. I was absent many times. it seemed
natural. to seek the beauty in womanhood—to sing praises, to exalt physicality,
in an unphysical realm.
if to love as love
channels, tender flutes, cellos, and violins. to capture a glimpse, to know
with heart, so many wounds spell glory. never enough said, when so compelled, never
a soul, so alike to chemistry. the nakedness of valleys. those fitting
allegories. the myth of the sun. to keep loving love, to maintain an ideal,
with life screaming at naiveté. sure into my eyes, sprinting into my brains,
affected deeper into wilderness. so difficult to say something, like a soul
finding words, like a shy poodle.
barking with
subtlety, when shall I learn—of deer, snakes, jaguars?
I would meet
terrors, in suggestibility, with needs to unveil love. some abstract term,
requiring description, we can’t just say, “I have you in my sanity.”
