The miracle swoops the lancing hearts the fierce must
live; pure violet stung by terrors the soul as an ornament. I was nervous at
first glance, I should’ve spoke diamonds, and danced like cirrus, so paced and
delicate; dying is mystical, a small tornado, sudden a tsunami—those spread
wings, connecting countries, many miles city to state. (To become celebrated
indifference, prone to analyze, never cared so much.) Detached from its center,
aloof from its stem, so enlove with magic and miracle and madness. (I declined
in tensity. I remeasured what reaches for us. And stillness became isolation.) The
gift is essence, love is treasury, asunder and motion—years at it, letting go,
revealed to self in trying—as anxious souls, knowing it’s part myth, born
majestic, and closeness is fairer distance. What it seems as it floats higher—the
portrait is invisible—pain is necessary anguish.
