What
for this thing, to haunt a vessel, to feature rage. It’s closer for pain,
and
pain for distance, ever the pain; but too for joy, to touch core
trauma,
to hear for lines. I question darkness, to know for purpose, to
journey
Siena. I know it for silence, and ever for loudness, to plummet
saints.
I once for love, to gurney for darkness, a mystic pentagram;
and
more your call, to travel an ocean, running with cheetahs. I thought
for
leopards, to paint for spots, afraid of paint thinner. We cross lines,
to
see for diamonds, afraid to speak; and more this thing, to see for ups,
to
struggle for downs. I hold it dearly, a fit of woes, to heal digestion.
We
wrestle lights, to ask for why, to
need an answer; and what this
feeling,
to flicker with twilight, to soar so high; where something
dwells,
a chaotic force, screaming obscenities. I court for caution, to
sketch
for wisdom, a palm of ink.
We
die come features, to see it to know it, the grayest pleasure. It’s a
long
walk, a dark forest, searching for breath. It’s cold and clammy, to
hear
a lark, to whistle to owls. The future’s haunted, ever for there, a
semi-addiction.
I want for names, to play for chess, as bold as, I love
you. It’s more a feeling, as old as us, another for terror. We long for it,
to
beg a parent, and give it back; but
never that light, a true auxiliary,
to
volunteer. Its winter this night, and summer this day, to live a seesaw.
