Lydia the dream, caught in trance, so beautiful, too wonderful to
love in passing. I was reading The Prophet, I was whelmed into soil,
tired of talking, tired of saying, it cures, when it hurts. The seaward blames,
the FBI agent, makes her attractive, most dangerous. Left for deceased, or
shipping to Greece, saying enough to love like dying. Could never compete, the
island is painted with favor, the Orpheus of the light, the chase of the
zillions, one in a trillion, one chance, so residential the last turn. She
might come to life, sucking a snakebite, living a dream. It seems important, it
seems many serving the walls, so ecliptic, so cured. Again, like superstition,
like rolling into traffic, to have adored sight seen in one last request.
Traveling hells, fighting to breathe, I just need her life; the gates of the
minds, as flung open, the heart speeding into its language. To wonder of
excellence—How to travail with joy, as opposed to terror, or pain, in a dungeon?
Bloody eyes, flesh blurred, touching like animals; so much (needed) disrespect,
as delivered to tales, a man’s life becomes an allegory. Gibran makes a
tremendous point: “…who can depart from his pain and his aloneness without
regret?” So much in crystals, so much topaz, too much mica; the pain is
pivotal, her body is legal, a problem, a mind treasure. So tortured, to touch,
afraid it becomes the last rescue mission.
