You’ve become petals wafting across a pond, deep
saffron eyes, beige deserts and memories.
Most dangerous appeal, a soul churns to ache, to
control, if to possess life; spirit and anguish, treasure the destiny, to find
roots in human soil.
We adhere to walls. We cherish protocol. We’re most
wretched.
I could smile and pass away—surrendering to chance—and
inevitability (souls must learn to cherish the in-between).
Polished by scars. Precious vase and porcelain. Disturbed
by human precipice. I’ve said it
unclearly; the need is plural; security, sacredness, is located elsewhere.
You’ve
become jamesia crowns, agonizing the inner maze, featured in the hidden. Most terrified
of souls, an agent for reality, confessing, we haven’t reality.
To touch
in some sense the value of the wilderness, souls bled of sanity, made sane in
converse.
To have loved in fantasy most to imagine eloping,
knowing in fear the hour is to sit still.
