healing
is a mystery. loving you is anguish. I wonder how celebrities adore: screaming,
undesigned, in welts, worries, welded inside.
calling
you in silence, begging for asylum, dreaming from the rooftop; sweet
deliverance, inside acres, eating my misunderstandings.
you
replaced the last one. you keep reaping. so ripe for amore and disappointment.
so elegant, too young, so rebellious. traits, rules, characteristics—sour grapes,
surrendering nectar, beauty in art, as rain drops in smiles, so against an
opposite appearance.
our
unsacred decision, the mighty lamps, settled into a blizzard. the curse of earth,
music in pain, dice at our cores. only sixteen, laughing with sorrows, trying
our net at excellence. androgynous culture, oh tender culture, to have become
less than wilderness culture.
saturated
with presence. I can’t present, as in woodlands, to claim a deed to a human
soul. the price we cherish—magnificent instability—love as a project, pushing
boundaries, trying beyond interior location.
would
you like to see us? are we heading to Bethlehem? have we gifts and myrrh? nay,
dreams remain on rooftops, chasing the decent soul, weathered for years, seeing
into the golden vase—those craving lies, the forgetful acid, like essence
without substance.
I
light candlesticks. I place them in a symbol. I chant inside. the harp of
intrigue, the missing what hurts, the fire we stir.
