When sunshine touches morning dew, when pain feels good, we arise to singing softly. And I never knew for majesty those eyes, aloft and sudden into a daze—terrific passions! Sorry it never poured as a storm, never sacrificed existence, never begged repentance. It’s hard to focus, adrift through horizons, nocturnal pangs, aches and arts, such shivering limbs. And Love was a mirage, a blessed curse, pulling and tugging, silent sirens, sullen goodness. So much fiending, Love, so gathered near winepresses, tender heaving, gravid heaviness. In dying it felt unrealistic, akin to mania, so many creating psychoses. It’s not new. And needing agonies to suffice and survive, to feel existence—sable-blue-green eyed ghost woman. And with it all comes danger, cemetery visions, vivid and part empty, vapid and full of life—on occasion—so nearby. It was never called seduction at heart, it was vibrant violets, numen nemesias, radical realism; in remembering a voice, diary of a phantom’s brains, chased as it is, something living in me—such eruptions, sheer peaking, permanent genetics. To happen upon excursion, hampered by fears, most favorite of dreams. Let it be excellence to enjoy. Let it be pains to enter. Let it meet where it lives. Ripe persistence; aging perfection; by exposé, by watered livers. To sound out syllables, to create ecstasy. To live!
