by
its mercy, in its loss, a man is a fugitive—from himself, his irony, his
battle.
I
imagine in you—pure glamour, irrefutable mercy; so untamed, as tamed, so
confusing.
hurts
more during seeing …
those
fumes, as blazing, wings flapping; so strong it hurts, so together it’s wrong,
so pure, I’m filthy.
words
distracting actuality, a
fugitive
in self, a dream inside-out, to lay on carpet, trodden underfoot, unbuilt, like
a child, more immature, some cross, the mercy in its loss.
too
outstanding, open arms, where, if found, have you died?
maybe
the fifth tryst, designed to think, a thought in glory, a pain in aches; stupefied,
laughing a tear away, filled with love—
so
much it resounds, so deep it cuts, wrestling with boundaries;
much
overlap, it starts this vein, too impure to discount a feeling.
