Prism eyes. Fleshed out miracles. I was younger courting Light. It couldn’t be imaginary; it couldn’t be actual. Some surreal gem giving prose strength. In loving eschatology, in sensing mythology, made actual in surmising life. We find form is powerful, even form and content. With
pash came passion; with compassion came intimacy, so many miles to shivering. A dying man may incarnate, still passing over, still rising from ashes, alike to a phoenix. I wish wellness to Love, so tired of resentment, knowing something alike to resurrection—those topaz cries. In all of what
sustains, touch was intimate, casual even, dire at times. Prism eyes. Sable skies. Frantic rhythms. I said it never feels right; I spoke incorrectly. It amazes how sentiments flourish—even against commonsense; those fleshed out miracles, by burning underbrush, soreness of indecision. I was
with flame, flickering discreetly, at wars inside, coming from humble regions. Fuchsia palms, iron knuckles, brass earth; who told us rules? Such galloping; such beatitudes. So lead to springs,
partaking of paradise, with realizing need, with hagridden frustration—dealing with intensity. Such foundation, those in sparrows, eagle precision, adoring—despite embarrassment. To have nothing disagreeable in heart, making motion, one thought into longevity.
