Like thunder the soul shackled and freedom the rise
into her arts. Aging. Facing mortality. Hopping into a mystery. Fire inside,
flame upon a wire, linked to myriad souls. Re-fathoming prints, oaken lips,
cypress violins. And Love wasn’t consuming, nor consumed.
I ponder the greats—to meet, lose the gaze and enter
into insanity. Big sable eyed gem; a diary spoke it clearly, dead until we met,
losing sanity, gripping reality, losing the miracle.
Needing to seem foolish. Needing to have reciprocity
of insanity. Wondering what passion feels essence.
To die in each other. To awaken in each other. To eat,
drink, breathe, hurt in each other.
Poetry
is myth, zoology, theoretical, body, mind, and index.
Poetry
is living and dying in one fantasy.
So simply
difficult. So difficultly unrealistic. Souls chasing ideals.
Spirits
trying to become sober.
Hurting
so much it feels like goodness, repentance, penance.
Poetry
is taste. Poetry is veins.
Poetry is trouble, indecency, the most precious form
of existing.
