Ghosts are in roses, tulips smile, desert was once
glory, art has history in bone, marrow, flesh. Poetry would die, save for
souls, so genteel when repaired; an outflow of spirit, she looks tired, traipsing
walls, forbidden, breaking freedoms—assuming it hurts, fullness freezing,
musing upon Jebusite eyes—sure to lose capacity, holding to probability, framed
in excellence—certain lure, a grimace upon contact, too much disagreement—explaining
every nook, so skeptic, affixed to maxims, wheezing—it craves—deep blue seas. Alike
to limbo, gothic fairs, the land is spoken for—with souls satiated, fixated,
pores grieving, to adore what slips away—to have heaven, to greet hell, to love
like foul winds. So grand a nympho, so desperate to become … so close to
needing nothing …. The prowl is crowded, wrestling for the helm, the ship is in
disarray; to ask a blacksnake the time of space, to laugh for reason at an
answer, where most of life is mute on answers; hypocenter focus, unnerved or
fragile, her eyes would dig for recollection. The arc is fluid, too friendly,
we desire raw honesty, even to reject its intensity—to live a little, to hurt
like Zeus, to adore like Athena: we sound imperfect; we live a lie, as
disaffected souls; so many casual pitfalls!
