Our Joys To Regrets

Do you love me; this knitted ugly, as holy as fallen men; this

sermon to flesh, this serpent of woes, to repent at the

church-bell. The temple is bleeding, grieving a young swan,

to scream out apologies; but hell is a thief, the soul’s firefly,

even a sunray. I love you living, a saffron tulip, the realm of

justice. It’s more your life, ever a thunderclap, ever my selfhood.

It turned a corner, a sublime corner, from loved to hated; the art

of pressure, that inward cave, the soul devastated; but never

this pain, to hope for smiles, the Sartre of alchemic tears; to

transform life, an augury of kisses, the rune of innocence. I see

for suns, my unphysical heart, chiming with an artery. How to

touch you, the billow of pain, the kismet of tragedy! We died

so young, a pensive nightmare, to forget the good-times; so

whisper dreams, the sacral dreams, as christic as Lent. I never

could—the stalk of grime, to tremble the photic. We paint the

legends, as cultic as heart-warming, to drift afire—floating

through violets—and God came, the gravid star, the splendor of

war.

We drink the ink, to sing and swim—an ember to flicker;

where love is purple, a daughter’s heartsore, the texture of

seashores. I hear the valiant, a swan in motion, the courage to

face life; and hear for love, a secret disguised, to stipple the faith.

We courted dalliance, to savor zeal, to hope for the deathless;

but life is grains, the turns of grief, to finally seal heaven. I love

you more, to finally let go, to except the terms of life; for more

mature, this inward upsurge, a mother’s drumbeat—to see it fly,

a tender moment, to think of few.

Oh the nightsong, the treble of hearts, as safe as confidentiality.        

Feathers are Flapping

We’re breathing one breath, aspark the flame, to ask: “Are you heartless, Love?” I disappear, thrusting through sentient eyes, nailing gravity; to drift the opera, to grab the phantom, to hear the songbird. Oh the years, to see her face, as fulgent as heartsores; in which to die—for life to give bones, the call of Ezekiel; torn for passions, to perform as whetstones—the splendor of her gestures. Its crimson tears—from saintly eyes, a gemstone as pain; where issues froze, for dreamlike angst, to mesh through resistance. I drift dimensions, to stargaze heaven, to discern the failings. We fall the spark, to maintain distance, if only a smile. Oh for discernment, the seismic voice, the color of her aura; to flux the fireball, the neighbor’s koan, as feral as florid; the nectar of kernels, the ember of prose, to sit for debates. I know of pain, and plus the presence—of something spectacular; for art the lance, a romantic grain, to scribble thunder; to know for secrets, the essence of treasures, the measure of woes; for never the flight, to watch a lifetime, streaming through fissions; where perfect is this, to surf a phrase, to grow and perish. Its subliminal scars, to wonder of ifs, to know for mystic; and can’t explain—the days of silence, to picture as mavericks; where something shifted, the deep unsung, the tempest of rain.

     Are you heartless, Love; Am I broken, Love?

I ask, to feel for rotten, to scream the potent; and serpent love, to morph suddenly—the planets of never; where passion spoke, the volume of tension, to meet a response—the angst of silence.

    We snowball normal, this welkin ambition, a sermon to stick to membranes!        

To See It for Motion

The legend of this majesty, for warming sensation, to gather a glimpse—or stand in awe; where a soul opens, spotted in mirrors, to witness a floating castle. As the mystic breathes, so more the experience, as lofty as to feel it!

I felt the spark, to channel for mind, to become the furnace—refined in parts. There’s still for vacancy, to chase the blue ribbon, to wonder for better; to see for spirit, to flag his heart, to soar the great expansion; in which for sadness, the richest joy, to shift for another level.

Spirit kindles the flame, to chat at unawares, unless for sought after; in which is faith, to build a fortress, to know for reasons, to give the affirmative; whereat to wrestle, even through winds, to speak for yin and yang: the power of the lessen—the terror of beauty, that inward gong.

The drums are beating, freely of the winds, where the tribes dance—to see for waves—of wailing ghosts, to move the oak tree; in which is fire, an ancient home, to hear it speak: the trail and path, the inward kingdom—the fallen gods.

Oh the goddess, the beauty of spirit, to chide, laugh and mend the rift; we channel through pieces—of a portrait—painted on a psyche; we die to live—to live to die—fully infused—to fill the vacancy; and this is love, to sit the whirlwind, the three for one.

He mingled with spirits, to surf through planets, the realms of mystics—where death watched, to perish in increments, to stand as reborn. He met a woman, the terror of beauty, to dwell that space—and singing glory, the nights of tribes, to summons the great depth; in which for pressure,

to empty vats, spinning through portals; where mercy cried, to reach the expansion, the indwelling kingdom; where gods mingle love, the flute of the goddess, streaming through hemispheres. She loved through kef, the earth of myth, to float through dialogue. Oh the

flickering flame, the grains of thoughts, to pace, kneel and pray; whereat is passion, to shift the cosmos, to measure the glow: a yogis' dream, a mystic sphere, to live through spirits. We cry it outwardly, the fallin’ rain—the links of eternity.

Hi Love.

It’s the mystic, my love—to soar and fly, to hear the whisper—a subtle prompting, to eschew the impatience, painting cotton cloth; we love for Love, sanding mahogany beads, rubbing through the texture; it’s ever the mystic, at the heart of Christ, to read the red letters—where Love is burgundy, the ultimate trauma, a courtyard of prayers. I see for hearts, to find my own, the lecture of souls—and armoire tents, the voice of love, bathing in sunbeams. The Lord is law, as mystic as Mount Sinai, a voice through clouds. It’s deep the arteries, even synaptic gaps, as cryptic as the brightest glow; so read for wisdom, discern and fly, that closer sidereal dreams—to see for spinning, to shift and sail and stream and surf; for love is Passion, beyond for gravity, that deeper the inward person—to soar and dream, a mental ballad, to harpoon the pressures; the sound of operas, to sing to Barnabas, to summons Saint Paul—for this is life, an orb within a psyche, to grip the shoulder of Christ. I hear for pride, to know for soul, but rather for the inward God—floating and shifting, that closer to home, to find it and lose for grip; for it ever moves, for us to chase, to feel that moment. We know for hurts, and barefaced tears, to grab a handkerchief—to sing through inner streams—to touch the front door, to open and soar; oh the love, fraught with soulquakes, and soulprints, and the deepest whisper;  oh the mystic, to chime with ancestors, to see the sky—for Moses and Elijah—where Peter was drowsy, to see the glow, to ask of tents; but barely to see it, to chime as the Rock, to know the pensive outcome; to hear rebuke, the thoughts of humans, for Christ is the Songbird.     

Ghosts Born

Its tribal affections, the course untamed, to chew up reason and perish—ever this life, to shift the comforts, where pain controls; to feel the fitful, that closer gone, to ravel the mind, to nettle the soul—and weaning sorrow, to push for grandness, to feel a deficit.

Its mystic rills, to enrich the heart, snatching out shrapnel—that much confused, to utter love, and shred a soul; the growth of passion, to keep the composure, scarce on wildness; for rain is lethal, to know the dungeons, to find for fancy the nearest lecture.

Oh the yogis, spinning in secrets, a novel of events—pushing and pulling, to furnish a mansion—that’s deep within, to unlock sensation, to rev an engine; where steering is mystic, to paint the frontier, as sublime as the clad of radiance.

We shift and sail, the mental fray, to coax the Ghost—in which is grit, to aim for symmetry, to grapple with reality: the pains, the joys, the flux of both; whereat are tears the canvas made right, to know the internal struggle.

We loved in fresco, the ceiling bleeding, to feel the indwelling—and crawled to Yah, that close to formless, to drink the rain; whereby the droplets, akin to a wine-cellar, trekking the winepress; and mother cried, the heart of purgatory, sitting as a newborn. 

To Watch the Seasons

Its winter blues, the death of mother, to feign for perfect—soaring the madness, thinking of a drink, that closer to the sunlight; to feel it beat, to know she knows, a bit for esoteric; plus the memoirs, reading for nursing, and never weaned; in which are aches, the scrapes of dungeons, to guard an infant. We gave her milk, to watch her play, a young lady’s cup—for something to overflow, to outsoar parents, to snatch her away. “I walk on my own”;—shifting through growths, as bold as untamed animals. It’s quite intrusive, to snatch a coke, and sip with ownership. We laugh to see it, a bit unaware, to watch a young person—streaming through letters, learning the language, a tour combative. I scribble a note, to peer into life, rubbing a picture. The world is cold, yearning for rewards, to feel it embedded: this need to please, to remember parents, to carry them worldwide; plus for scruples, to wrestle ethics, a course of vexation. To know she wouldn’t, and did it to us, a journey quite partial; where hunger growls, to feel for raptures, eyes spinning upwards—and ever for an upwelling, to stress for feelings, to elude a conversation. Oh for unaffected, the something of a myth, as laudable as slow death—to feel that way, the tithes of life, as emphatic as meditation; to see us perish, the something of degrees, to rise as a young force. I watch her sparkle, a bit exposed, to outwit fatigue—the greed of pressures, to caution the souls, to pardon infractions; for it runs this course, a daily event, to think with distress—and ever channeled, a television of hearts, sparse on affection; in which for woes, to die and never give, that close to receiving—the tides—the hurts—the calmness.    

Space Bound/The Deep Expansion

Oh the nectar of circuits, fleeing to flee, to embody electricity—the form of our nature, for a tender spirit, infused in layers. Oh the lovelock, the visions—of a mystic addict—ever that terrified, stressing the dreams, to feature a trance; and how to explain, this fantast soul, a living paradox, even a koan; where music is linchpins, to whisper the winsome, to meditate teachers: the journey of gods, to reach for goddesses, to imbue a fireplace. We watch—in anticipation, the sanctum of hearts, to generate fireballs—that closer that life, to outsoar pain, if but a keystone moment; to drift afar, while sitting in stillness, to fall knees to the floor. Oh the luminous, a sacred secret, to share and feel attached. I reckon this path, attempting for detached, as sensitive as nerve-waves; where pathos is shunned—the firebrand of love, this person of persons, trekking through a thunderstorm; in which to live, the elixir of rain, to ponder his mother. Oh the nonplus, the mystery of pain, to open and perish—the walk of apostles. We feel agog, to wrestle depression, to ignore the outcome: a teary soul, a burning spirit, a countenance enflamed; where crows gather, to chase the fallin’ moon, to feel yogic ripples; and this—the coldest mystery, the heart is a telephone. Indeed this life, fully afire, to sculpt a tiara—and ever for a young swan. I know for pain, to lose for all, to rebuild through grace—the sublime texture, stationed near hell, to rise through christic vibes. In truth the rain, to paralyze construction, to laugh at apologies; and this for her, stuck for death, to create a false fortress. I fall to hear—the birds through chirps, to tell of the addict’s confidence. Oh for gods, as feral as trances, the sun as a halo; whereat is passion, the grandest splendor, to borderline the grandiose; and plus for heartache, a bit disturbed, forever this life, to buck his brain; and hitherto, a thread majestic, a walking whetstone, an opus in the makings; so more to rain, to construct lives, to catch a swan.   

Our sculptress hearts, as exotic as bane, quilted in fevers—where love is ransom, the hurt of waves, to give and receive; for soulprint rites, a temblor in a mind, reaching for justice; in which is madness, a vase in an attic, even a nightmare; and something died, that more would live, a young Utilitarian; and never the heart, to channel Deontology, and dying in segments. It’s more the rites, the nib of raptures, a bit rhapsodic; where god bled, a florid rose, an aria distressed; for this is hope, and twilight dreams, to puncture a fantast; where a goddess dwells, carving a trestle, flickering through firewood. Oh the madness, perfect for imperfect, an inner paradise—in which is fire, and starlit passions, a surreal notion. I fell this lot, adorned in wildfire, feeling blue-waves—to picture the method, the art of resistance, a rumor in a soul—to hear the whispers, to read the journal, to pause at logic; to see it rarely wins, where hearts are scarred, a leaflet on a psyche—where hell speaks, a tragic language, to reach for flowing light.  

Why Does Love Perish?

Its fanatical passions, crashing into souls, the risk of his mind; we perish this night, a seed for a thief, the ink of trembles. I love for law, the Lord in blankets, to stand the tribunal; and how to know, the brain for slanted, falling through dimensions—and near for sacral, to love a poetess, to lay claim to eyes. It’s but a moment, to define a life, soaring through monotony; where trinkets speak, the ritual of love, a daughter as a swan—her mother as dove. I hated through love, bent and psychotic, the fever of our station; and wistful feelings, to kill the person, to know the regrets. I cry the pensive, to remember a gaze, our lives the fret of panic. Oh I disappear, to think for psychs, and misperceived; and never could—the volt of dungeons, to drop it and flee; and do forgive, the psychic billows, the children grieving; to watch for parents, in knee deep addictions, to speak of apologies. I fell that lot, to hear for promise, to hear, “Don’t judge me”: and oh to drift, to think for beauty, a marvelous contour; to gyrate and shift, ever that closer, to collapse and laugh; where pictures form, the grit of dying, even in small fragments. Its territory woes, to claim for her, although the seasons are plural; and god died, to love a myth, and she cried, “I’m sorry.” I live it—the grave, a bit for transformed, and nearly gunned down—this empyreal love; where daughters cringe, to see for flames, the depth of humanity; to fall and lie, to live and die, a bit untrue. I give it to hear it this love in shadows and buried in graves, and I couldn’t explain—the time and deaths shifted through the tensions of souls. It’s true the night, to mourn the morning, running towards broken sighs. Oh the dialogue, to stream through ghosts, a temblor to the brain; in which is passion, the souls are printed, to wrestle a woman for love.  

She’s a Marvelous Wonder

Such beautiful pain, articulated in gestures, as hewn as diamonds, a simile for prose. Oh the figs of her life—to hear her speak, a metaphor for writing; and that is, the two are one, flooded with therefores, a woman as a furnace. She nibbles the pears of verbs, a terror for understood, beating through his chest; and that is, the holiest pain, to die five wounds; in which are smiles, to touch for afterwards, to peel his grapes.

She handles with grace, a private addict, where none can tell—unless for keenness. She feigns as heartless, a tear for sensitive, to filter regrets; and that is, to hold him through barriers, the ebb of a webbish life; and that is, the past dreams, to fib through nibs, to finally confess—the stress of fears, kneeling in showers, to baptize pain. Oh her favorite soul, adrift another continent, as near as fevers: the ghosts of frights, the nights of passion, an effort to laugh.

We love her, streaming through lectures, writing a memoir; and that was—but barely enough—up and ‘til—the phantoms blew winds; and that is, her inner vase, a reservoir dripping, the heartache of progress. We see her, the neatness of years, a corporate star—the owner of ladders. He’s loving her, a partial stranger, to give for all; where egos mourn, yearning for treasures, to finally utter the chasm.       

I’ll dearly speak—the tears for flame, to watch in silence—to dig for deeper, a bit unqualified; for why for us, the life of pain, to chisel an image, as perfect as unreal—the sights for hiding, to scrape a bong, the gong of wealth, to feel for dizzy, as if not for guilty. We love the forest, to pray for solace, to shred a veil—the steepest deserts, channeled blankly, to love her more—to answer a secret, she’s surfacing anguish, an infinite search.  

This Thing

To want this thing, to live this thing, that much closer to this thing; the extent of her life, to barely touch the surface, to perish this thing. It’s the agony of heartbeats, to bleed this thing, influenced by this chase; to finally become—this paradox of dreams, twisted through drumbeats and soundwaves—as candent as spiritual rites; where seabirds watch, and whales tarry, a world through a psyche; for oh this thing, the beast of her breaths, the kef of her chessboard.

To want this thing, the act of his wheel, the puce of his veins. It’s ever this thing, his cake and coffee, his liquor and drugs; to live this thing, to read contemporaries, to die their verses; for oh this thing, the pudding of this pie, the sky’s intolerance; where a lance—crushes egos, to know a fraction of this thing; to perish in grays, the peaches of ink, to pause this thing; and oh the research, the constant application, the flute of his nightmares.

To know this thing, its familial essence, the dates of this thing; in which are fevers, for moments of death, to see self in this thing—its dreams, passions and ambitions. The story of this thing, to wrestle the greats, to channel their souls—forever at streams, the odds of this thing, the flutes, the harps, the violins! Oh the application, to memorize teachers, to ask for prayers, and devastated by this thing; to see it breathe, a pinkish rum, striving through warm chills.  

Trauma

We sprouted from trauma, even broken homes, with models as addicts. The fever churned, to morph a flame, to pull at brilliant souls; but ever to wrestle,

to love for parents, to excuse the trauma. We had dreams,

to watch them implode—into dynasties of sorrow. We grew

familiar with tall tales, even apologies, to repeat a silent

cycle; as vocal as mirrors, chiding affectation, to emote

composure. How for a child, to become a young man, sought

after for solutions! It happens in homes, to replace a father,

burdened with pressures; where a young lady drinks

—while a young man smokes, the two to meet through trauma; but what of faith, a solid style, chiseled into a potential monster. It’s ever resilience, that deep in prayer, for eyes to swell with flame. We push and pull and live to die—growing through webs, to die for living. We sprouted from trauma, stressing strings, a motif for a soul; we live the requiem, to serenade sorrow, that closer to heartache. So more to arts, the torn expressions, a prelude to therapy; where minds sing a chorus, to replay a cinema—to see for mother, an image as father.

The opera is rain, seeping into soil, a soul as a garden; but what for trauma, to hear it whistle, as intense as a symphony. We sprouted from pain, the raptures of turmoil, a legacy of trauma; where mother died, to want for love, the reason for kids; while father fled, without return, to live a stranger; we find for tempos, to ward-off demons, to breathe each breath. It’s more the hypersensitive, dwelling in five parts, a human as a quintet. We perish this light, to see for trauma, to watch our reflection; where others chide, for seeing the sights—of one aware of most angles. We die a fugue, to raise a rose, to feel for spotted. It’s ever there, the favors of parents, to live it like majesty.      

Mirrors

They were strangers, such intricacies of a mirror, such presence of a humming aura. They knew for tragedy, two but silent, stressing shorn fantasies; for it’s a burden to die, to crave a color wheel, to thirst with hunger; but lines are so tragic; a Savanna is so hallow; to court for painstaking valleys; where winds are mocking, such terror of souls, a spider in a psyche. They perish in silken woes, a leopard by instincts, a jaguar by beauty. In tears a sun rises, searching for a hampered moon, such as two never to meet again.    

Mirrors are stalking, pulling at eyes, something needling attention. She redecorates, positioning mirrors, forever uneasy. Mirrors watch, capturing every instance, for merciless reflection.     He wails—for knotted, that closer to stages, walking through chattering hallways.     Walls morph into reality, shedding mirrors, displaying every phase of his life.     She feels his terror, clutching from gripping her stomach, that closer to highways.     He takes for courage, to shatter mirrors, to witness broken pieces of himself.    

These are two mirrors—lurking in shadows, a dragon as a python—where images grow limbs, ten fathoms deep—into crevices where self is scratching for freedom.     She heard his name, streaming from his mind, where he heard her voice.     They were strangers, a mirror to an ostrich, digging for mother earth; for mirrors give to take, to impassion through trauma, for walls to transition. Its life as mirrors, as floating dragonflies, hiding beneath eye-patterns.           

I Can’t Find It

I can’t find it, that feeling, which speaks of legacies, castles and fevers; that miracle of words, chasing an inner being, dripping from lightning; that thunder, pushing through waves of activity, fond of psychic peaks. I can’t find it, to watch it manifest, to unlock dungeons, where sentences morph into legacies, and ideas charge the idle soul—with treason; that season for moments, drenched in swan eyes, where passions become bankrupt, and souls become this foreign mirror.

I can’t find it, that supernova, streaming through galaxies, flexing muscles, warring through intellectual pyramids; where levels speak of sorrow, and childhood traumas, to become an awkward adult; that realization, to see for unison, those tenets that are found obnoxious; that inner sanctum, charged through repetition, the resonance of words; where being soars, the caves of mind, falling through sounds—the Aum of an inward passion, flipping through flames.

I can’t find it, that rajah self, tiptoeing dimensions, flooding into realities; where mystics drift, into yogic lands, buried in channels, floating for scrapping clouds; that sense of completion, if only for moments, to find for that feeling, that striving and dying for legacies. I can’t find it, that deep rooted forgiveness, to know it’s there: cheering in communion, pulling at sky-souls, the majesty of mantras, Tao, and a series of sequences pushing towards that kingdom of whispers.     

Hi Love. The morning met a subtle beat.

There’s fuchsia brilliance, the measure of visions, longing for satori. We imagine progress, a family of exotic flowers, knitted at the petals. We marvel at butterflies, and hide from bumble bees, listening for the color of tones; where the warm nourishes, while the harsh disciplines, that much closer to adulthood. There’s the deep azure, painted upon purple eyes, and blueviolet wishes; where cyan hopes—chisel mantras, to fall into nethermost regions; that’s deep the soul, trekking through lava, and dark red sulfur; in which are firebricks, seated on icebergs, a tinge of indigo.     I met a beaver, gnawing and talking, and sketching an image. We looked for closer, at something haphazard, to see for virtues. Its celibate ink, and garnet wines, to swirl in spirit; its hazel brown eyes, for starling wings, masked as a weaver; but know for love, an Asian smile, and African soul; and mend the dots, nibbling sugar plums, and slicing apricots; for there are remnants, of an ancient soul, even Egyptian breaths; to fever a heart, to caress an orchid, a mile into mistyrose thoughts.     I saw a swan, to peer at grace, that much more distraught; for there is anguish, a sea of tides, to wonder for brave; where this is image, to seep into bones, to mimic the examples; in which are both—for joy and pain, to become a marksman.     There’s something gray, concerning the hands of time, to sink into the mystery; where mothers tint emotions, to give for strength, to mold the wisdom.     The linen is spirit, and medium blue angst, that closer to the river; to cross turquoise rocks, and olive algae, filled with a wild obsession; but in truth, the love of ferrets, probe a psyche, to see for such comforts.  

To Love Us

This sugar plum love; and oh the value—the blood of lilies!

I met a fever, a glorious woman, to halt at the ingress. I laughed the pain, to shadow the hurt, pulled for closer. I wrestled the dignity, lips to breast, to see her in glory. She wouldn’t give the seal of pressure, to perform at higher levels. We tussled—the gladness, the ache of this life, to feel that moment.  I bathed a goddess, as petite as models, to shelter her soul. Oh the closeness, the nearness of passion, to clash with morals. I perished!     Oh this life, to enter slowly, to grapple the fire. The scratches and hickies and pulls and tugs and childlike banter; we perish this joy, ever for fevers, crying at the climax; where pain is sensual, and love is gradual, the courage of a nation; to take a chance, to feel for jaded, too young to know.     I love you this heart, to feel you this soul, a magnet to woes; and forever a thought, the cloud of purple cherries, as exotic as ocean sheets.     I saw a puddle, an African moon, to do the forbidden; and hitherto, a picnic basket, bleeding heartwine.     I hear for secrets, to love for moments, the waves of our agony; where a goddess feels, and I couldn’t give, the earth of this motion.     Its lily blood, to drip the icecream, nibbling upon dates; its figs and guava and mango peach—the extent of our fantasy; and ever to live it, even a blue daisy—the cosmos screaming. It’s the Words of Paradise, to script our psyches—the soul of gardenias; where sex is union, the two as one, a blessing for the mind; in which is favor, the beauty of art, as febrile as passion.        

Soul-Craft

The interior—even a soul, to dictate actions; where beige is life, to utter gestures, to scream at walls; in which for tender, a bleeding scar, centered upon a brain. I blocked a doorway, to scrub a feeling, to finally shiver the nights. We sprout like weeds, a bit unfastened, to steer a miracle. I fancy the apples of love, the sugar of breads, the fruits of apologies; but what for stubborn, to thrust his soul,

to ask for death? I mourn the berries, alive this venue, to pet the cobra; whereat is guile, the width of vineyards, to meditate literature—and know for seduction, to disdain the lost, to play the phantom. Oh the moons, to shift the feelings, to love but one night—to mock the breath, this rift of winds, to

perish far the valleys. I cried the dragon lights, to pierce the dragon fruits, as animated as cartoons. Oh the secrets, to watch for movies, a pattern of activity; and there for death, is there for life, the hue of our transgressions; where lines fail, to court a human, this lightfast liaison. We crawl, the value of flowers, to tour the coming attractions.

Was it necessary, to witness destruction, to find for peace? I ask at unawares, to knit a scarlet quilt, to judge for nothing; and this is magic, the judged without judgment, plucking an aster; where a swan shivers, to see for absurd, to filter excuses; and plus for rain, a tulip in a bottle, to blossom and wither. Its alpine scars, a begonia in the shade, to struggle for light; where grays are matrimony, to play intelligence, with a brazenfaced lie.  

Wavelength: That Feeling

The fragrance of evermore;

a banquet of fantasies, as hormones waft. I saw

her eyes, travelling his soul, a vestibule of

mirrors. The fragrance of evermore; the felt,

the breath—of supernal kisses. To covet the

free—a gentle sigh; to covet the bonded—a

social faux pas, worthy of shifty gestures.

Oh to filch a soul, to swivet through artwars,

the styles of seduction—akin to folklore: the gravel bleeding, the rose fading, while the heart is screaming. He’s too shy to mend it: the bloody nights, the waxing and weaving, where a woman cringes. It’s but a glass: It’s a glass too many: the weeks of controversy.

We irrigate souls, attracted to souls. Oh the unconscious, to picklock souls—the dreams, the shadows—the steaming mire. Such is chaos, to slam a vase, as glass collects bubbles, writhing in a fireplace.

She watches the midnights, afraid of loving,

rapt in silence; to remove a shackle, a tear

detrimental, to change the currents. He watches,

to peel back seaweeds, trembling for smitten.

I saw her eyes, her nocturne eyes, as

stately as rebellion, bleeding composure.

It’s the dreams, as potent as subconscious rills, the splendor as symbol—of something so lofty, to want that forevermore: that feeling, drenched in pudding, to escape the fleeting; that first high, the feeling of desire, that eternal mantra. We generate passion, to generate love, or wait for courtship. Oh to cringe, to speak for little, to do for little—to expect the dreams. Oh when it lives, the shifts, the turns, to misknow self—ever inflated; to see in heart, a strange being, as alive as mindwaves; for there’s indelible ache, where tentacles reach, for passion insoluble. Oh the days, to mourn the city, to heed the trumpet blast.       

To Address Humans

I read it my life, articulated in prose, where rivers swelled into oceans. I met a daughter, to think of Trethewey, to cheer for Mississippi. West is moving, from season to season, dying for living, a space for culture. It was Smith to catch me, something so subtle, the power of bee hives. It was Traci to trigger mania, to know for bipolar, the anguish of a sentence. I thought for Maya, the dignity of legacy, to read for Obama; where Oprah paused, to trace the sorrows, as purple as bleeding moons. The tales are Cone, the richest roots, to paralyze possibility. I must for sight, the mind of Hippies, pushing for passionate peace. I found in stillness, a love through hate, to escape a mirror; where such is image, the fire of pain, to live the ambivalence. We mimic for peace, the death of self, to war for identity. Its mercy this mind, humans at a table, tiptoeing transparency. I thought of Douglass, to mend through hatred, to finally snap. Its hell for roses, to court a wife, the two dying through resurrection; insofar the night, to soar with dragons, afraid of shifting one’s core. We mingle so lightly, to judge by surface, in dire need of stability. I’m a culture lost, to live in-between, to converse with both winds. The days are vague, to sip and die, afraid to confess our fears; where a woman watches, to know for pain, a friend of the dying man. We say for equals, to know for spaces, to tiptoe the conflict. I know for eyes, and tattooed rites, filtered through nightmares. I see our work, the passion of our structure, to fly as I read; we culture like passion, the many for the few, a legacy of literature. I’m still behind, to find us near, shifting through cages; where greatness is more—to motivate souls, the earth of this motion.  

Mindflame

Oh the breeze, combing through mane, the symbols of music. We piano through grays; and so subliminal, to climb through voltage: as cavalier as poets, as artistic as nuns, to simmer through raptures. We speak in tongues, to translate Spirit, to grip a palm of ashes. I love us like danger, the fierceness of womanhood, the melting of icebergs. We maze the trauma, sketched in staccato, the harshest love; and something digs, the deepest question: Whether to possess or to want? Of which is joy, for both are pride, musing the dreams; where pain attracts, to finally say it, to want to protect; and what for this, the signs of Alcatraz, a ship steady to sail. Oh for Rembrandt, and more Picasso, to learn from Vaughn Gogh: the terrible trials, to tiptoe justice, a jury for jettison. We live as strangers, as close as priests, ever for incantation. I cry and mourn, to see for styles, the station of suffering; where days are joys, to sip upon life, as gone as privacy; and ever they tell, to see it through traffic, a tad bit different. Its charisma, a flaming heart, to leap at random; and what’s the ransom, my bright-eyed dream, to ever this surface; where depth is life, the lack thereof, stressing through mindcaves. The scene is colors, such brilliant colors, as tragic as Shakespeare; in which is life, such exhilaration, to crave its absence; and spirits hear, to tug the music, aflame a nightmare; where mares perish, ever to live, as close as confidence. Oh the mystery: to love a riddle, to gain an issue, that torn for running. There’s a private life, the privy of few, confined to patience. We wail the darkness, to want the light, streaming through mindflames; and something died, to see the contour, a bit for disappointed; where love shrugged, to disappear, to whistle through the zephyrs; and still the passion, scratching and screaming, to tug upon roots; where love appears, to rant and rave, to question the sequence. I’m more alive this year, speaking a dream-sense, that knitted to pain; in which are fliers, to filter a soul, founded in fevers; so more to love, to grapple with prose, to pull us outward. 

I Crave Her More

I’m scared to say love—to sing our music, the vultures that linger. The hinges are broken, the backwards of sunlight, the personalities of innocence. We tillage the future, to whittle a tree, that much closer to turmoil; for love is gray, the chorus of pain, the webs of listening; to hear a voice, the cadence of love, a woman our nightmare. I’m scared for love, to gnaw at wildflowers, to sculpt an antique vase; where this is us, for slowly to perish, staring at brown eyes. Oh the fever, the temperament of angst, an afflatus as a star. I love you there, a sullen koan, a father’s treasure-trove; to manumit love, to admire grace, as sign and symbol. The nights are passion, streaming through arms, and longing a fantasy; where pain is thought, a talisman conception, even epiphanies; whereat discernment, to exit a fantasy, to feel it pulling. Oh the gestures, through invisible eyes, stuck and stargazing. I’m scared to say love—to vibrate the fantast, to feel ignescent passions, that closer to turmoil. Indeed, the soulprints, a mandolin for a heart; where to venture, ever the lovelocks, the physics of amore; in which are prose, even a circuit, as fugacious as smiles; where this is us, to share with love, as knavish as confidential; plus, for madness, to cultivate monsters, to censure an aphrodisiac. I’m torn and afraid that much further the essence of fantasy; where alchemy is love, this nebulous venture, the emotions of a nun; in which are fevers, for a burning lesion, as hermetic as Christ. I’m scared of love, and ever for doting, this otiose chase; where love is there, for pure ambrosia, to assuage the deaths. It’s more pianos, a twitching eye, to enfold intentions; and Caesar’s wife, alive and mourning, to seek for comforts.  

I die the breath, this Dartmoor life, the affects of Delilah. It’s opalescent, to ween through portals, this plangent love. We give for life, an unknown self, to twist and churn the mindlights; where death is flagrant, the life of essence, to push and give for souls. Oh the pearl, the richest aesthetics, an infinite love. We ever return, to shatter earthenware, the etiquette of wolves; in which is pain, ineffable rain, to pardon the mishap. I’m scared to love, lilting to lullabies, enlove with leaving. It’s ever quiescent, this calming woe, to become attractive; for love is nigh, to give for mercy, the temperament of hurt souls; and erstwhile, a fever is pushing, to go for deeper. We imbue pain, to infuse love, as opulent as turmoil; for hitherto, the tides of resistance, to finally collapse; to shed a costume, to unmask dearly, to die tugging on an anchor. I perish this action, a blanket of tears, to reach the academic; and bathe this night, the phantom of hearts, drenched in ignorance. Oh for selfhood, the trajectory of pain, to riddle an inner parody; and more an inmost world, even a paradise, barraged with reality; for love is stormed, a tragic comedy, an enchanting cinema; where ocean’s are gray, and ashes are tarot, for shattered linchpins.       

Inner Arena

Endure the moment, to endure the future, and more to endure; this feeling for time, the times of feelings, to experience time. We climb emotions, to feature emotions, tired of feeling emotions; oh this love, buried in love, afraid to feel love. We climb the mirrors, to scream the mirrors, to crucify mirrors; and breath is passion, the passions of breaths, filtering breaths.

There’s vision and pressure the pressure of vision, to live it secluded, the days of vampires. There’s the tour of madness, the laughter of mirrors, to endure a calling wind; this for stationed, to cringe the reckless, to know we never cared. It was merely the moment, to fill-in space, to settle for extinction—to perpetuate madness.

Proclaim decisions, a life from ruins, to beg forgiveness; this inner world, to stipple existence, to knit for meaning; the shoulder of tales, to seek for truths, and hated for such. We love for silence, a home of secrets, to dine come sunfall; this feeling, forged in tears, to question an outward nature; to journey the forest, expecting loyalty, to wrestle a faceless mirror.

More the faceless, a faceless self, to possess for clueless; this is life: to do it without warning, afraid to confess, and quite indignant. We flourish in deceits, to break for evens, haunted dearly.

Hi Love.

I see you churning, the scope of madness, to court for order. We love you living, spinning through portals, the heart of a stepfather. We chime in gray, bent for burgundy, to love a mother; for mother gave for life, a swan on a Schwinn, the moonlit scars. I pause and faint, to disturb the cosmos, to channel the soul. We perish levels, to rise a sister’s breath, the kef of holiness. We see the selfish, to laugh and cry, a tattooed spine; but what for life, a daughter in motion, the potions of love. I felt for suitors, a youngster with charm, the years of your soul; where passion soars, the jaded to come, to pant through rivers.     Is it Buddha, Love—to define sorrow, to set a path?     I ask—filled with fever, a morning ritual.     The earth is tears, to find for joys, the name of a swan; in which is panic, to court for friends, to spell it backwards.     There’s tender the nights, to fracture the days, to seal the seven churches; and this for pain, and mystic grains, to argue a wall; and why for this, to feel it erupt, the cup of futures; for the Lord is Shepherd, a flaming Ghost, the Christ of mystery; where angst wails, to see for psychs, to regain the course.     I’m shocked and moving, to feel it deeply, that ancient burn.     I know for folly, the ocean’s debate, to find for laughter; and god heard, to answer with time, the realms of turmoil.     Fly the clouds, and grip the skies, that closer to breath; whereat is wealth, the go for in—the tides of songbirds; in which is art, those tragic waves, to fall and rise.     I love you soaring, to remember self, that soulfelt friend; for life is beige, the hurt for goods, a family of detriments; and a goddess knew, to kiss a daughter, to promise security. Oh the nights, to toss for turns, and terrified dearly.   

Everywhere the Nights

Is it love, to cherish the lesser, as attached as egos? I sip, but rarely rightly, to hear the sentence; where pain is seeping, to grieve the years, to watch for green eyes. The love was passion, to lose for all, the gall of our natures. I met a psych, fully the grains, as potent as the unseen; in which is life, to learn in kibbles, the embrace of thoughtcaves. We’re tender, to embark on life, a teacher as a muse; whereat sorrows, the width of actions, where a token was guiltless. I met a mystic, as raw as wolves, to guide for souls. I laugh the reigns, to chide the breadth, enlove with the very measures. It’s quite insane—to hold you—a moon afar; and love courted, to know for never, to wonder the spectrum. We die the legacy, to culture a volt, for maintaining distance. I smile the irony—to love and die, to die and live. We never would, for this is death, to kiss a partial stranger; for ours is myth, and plus for rules, where a beast cries for freedom. I drift a portal, to see for eyes, to withdraw a being; where souls mingle, to flood with particles, to witness the ice melting; and thus for flame, to burn with fire, to keep for distance. This is life, to resist an inner self, to maintain perfection. I’m ever the same, to give for comfort, to want rebellion. It’s lights and pain, to stress for comfort, and yearning for monsters; in which is passion, to witness a child, to perish in brown eyes. I love the grit, a woman our wisdom, trailing mother’s path; where pain is self, and self is tears, the girth of a last vowel. Give us life; the piers of joy, to tremble passion, to do for righteous.     

Everywhere the Days

We sit in gentleness, racketeering love, to spaceship infection; we lose to win, to reach grayly, for speaking strongly; its tears to love, to gambol an inner challenge, keeling at lifesupport. The soul in beige, to struggle a smile, the essence of virtue; it’s telic to feel it, a foreign woman, as revved as addiction; where echelon suffers, to yearn for lesser—our culture for rental.

There’s card games, to suture indignation, as opposed to ranting; the nature of vending machines, to purchase a gram, to mingle with porn stars; it’s ever a dream, up and ‘til—the bacteria grows limbs; where movies speak, while nerves spasm, to drain through nightfall. The stage is poetry, to live a novella, to awaken disgruntle; in which are pains, to scrape through ribs, the panic of a tough texture; whereto, the stillness of coldness, to perish the first breath.

We live it, as detached as emotional, frowning the paradox. The tour to run, to feel intensely, feigning a vineyard afar; where rain is friendship, even his right arm, to speak of love; whereto—is trust, the field before the table, a gangster in a tuxedo; it’s hell for joys, to know for touching, the extent of intervals; where justice suffers, disguised as love, to greet a family with lies.

We flip through adventures, to racketeer love, asearch for one of worth—even a confidant; where heaven deigns, to permeate souls, aglow in a little office; in which words were few, to speak of experts, a woman pictured in black guise; but this the mystery, to change a countenance, to feel a fever; where the goddess rose, to see a god, the two as distant as never.   

A Magnet for Rain

We chief the furnace, this closer to life, to joy a daughter swan; for this is love, the grave of essence, as pregnant as epiphanies. I love eternal, the ache of chills, the rills of this inner strife. We want for passions, to wrestle Agrippa, the words of a sullen apostle; in which are stars, the dungeons of prayer, to flame a fevered feature. The heart is law, to know your name, ever to plague a grieving soul. There’s broken skin, a mother for Digest, bleeding a blissful bane; in which are scars, for a fallen bridge, to mend eternity. Oh the contrast, to blend forever, the scope of inner musings; for I love you more, to know for pain, an escape we can’t find; and gods are near, a page in Psalms, to cleat a thriving vessel. The nights are wisdom, the birth of touching, to feel for ecstasies; where mothers cry, to see the Ghost, watching as doors shift backwards. We think for winds, a mother on sherm, a comedy turned tragic. I hear a princess, to know for death, afraid to confess the rain; and more is angst, the paint of death, to picture the future.     My dearest swan, the volts are plenty, to strike a nerve; where love is felt, to challenge betweens, an infant in the desert. I love you more, to feel you grow, a lady in a bubble; where passion soars, the doors of life, to perish for resurrection. I know of psychs, to trickle spikes, the earth of this tension; where art is grains, to thresh a soul, the walk of U-Turns. Feel to live, the width of tears, to dig into a person’s mind; where this is us, the fuss of dying, to picture more for perfect; in which are potions, the scent of cherries, to forward a fallin’ affliction.     I love you born, to save the grief, a terror, six feet shy; where curves are joy, the wealth of pressure, as near as breath.      

I see Your Image

There’s silence, where grains blossom, the stems of our psyches. I see your image, favored in rituals, to harvest a heartvolt. The texture is silence, for a vigil gaze, that much a heartstem. Our souls entwine, to journey the vast horizon, for more the distance. I see your image, found electric, to realize your posture: the fragrance of emptiness, the fullness of atmospheres, the color of impermanence. We chime in silence, to meet through images, the flavor of fountains. Grace be with us; to live in essence, the patience of years that churn; where beige is in-between, the thunder of a moment, to refocus intensity. I see your image, strong and sullen, to knit into visions: the mind of crochets, the grays of holding back, the wealth of this very vein. We treasure the dying flesh, to catapult spirits, the deeds of too much pain. That word moves us; to tiptoe fragments—of a world shedding leaves. I see your image, as precious as newborns, as able as martial arts, as tender as the last kiss; where pressure looms, to offset meditation, to finally find that space. The heart is Elijah, even Thecla, searching for the faith of Jesus; where measures are complex, the compassion of, Try harder, a vessel climbing temptations. I see your image, stationed at a table, mulling over documents; where a ceiling is leaking, a bucket is full, a carpenter is on the roof. The kettle whistles, the stove is unlit, to realize the kettle of minds. There’s a soul within, walking through chambers, pausing our phantom hearts; in which the texture, the streams of images, to favor your ritual. This is our painting; to scribble in spirit, alive through motivation; where arts are heavy, to heal a heartsore, that close to needing prayer.    

To Match a Spark

the moods change, to see for difference, a woman his age; where joy is mystical, a flaming psyche, bent on inevitable; and god rose, to shed a dungeon, to skip the ice slopes. we’re skiing eternity, to swoosh the esoteric, as feral as deep prayer; in which is death, the throes of life, to carry five wounds; to thereby live, a kid in a gymnasium, to pardon this love. i filter this tour, to spin for hearts, to walk the rites of names; and there for comfort, a beautiful dove, awake where i slept.

i hear a heart, to feel the sprinkles, to blink for eyes; where the goddess rose, to mold an empire, to drift the seven woes; for beauty drifts, to perish for living, to waft the radiance; in which the furnace, to touch resistance, to flame in fury. we dream this love, to meet for eyes, the seams of unbreakable; and hitherto, the widest angst, to feel the untouchable. i passion the light, the sweetest voice, the purest trance. it was more the treasures, to enter a circle, to reason for you; where pain is power, the shower of strengths, to raid an inner kingdom; and there is love, the drugs of motion, to vibrate justice.

there’s spurts of chi, wrapped in spirit, to channel the seasons; where humans dwell, and part divine, to flux the heartwaves; in which is flurry, the warmth of strangers, to see for kinship. we touch and move, where often to linger, to concentrate deeply—the woes and joys, the angst and fervor, seeping into personalities; for mere the gesture, a match to spark, ten tears torn.  

Suspicious of Truths

we love this lie, suspicious of truths, spewing verbs. we love to know not, product of the have-nots, a ceiling falling; where god sailed, to ruin hearts, a tear of bleeding eyes. i see you a sage, grieving our urns, pulling at fragments. i hear you a woman, to tiptoe the death, afraid to love—to that full extent, to be received, at a level detrimental; for earth is small, the weather of love, my glove at the precinct; for something shattered, to see it like them, ever to see it like us; in which is trauma, a mother’s nightmare, to breed a panther. i love it like passion, to know for never, tugged and nudged within; for love is naïve, the essence of love, to war the academic. Give me mind—my soul, twisting in swirls, a tenfold knot; where bars scream, to receive a meal, through a tiny slot. oh the hunger, to wonder of life, the measure of, it couldn’t be. i pass for outs, the smell of liquor, to flood a bedroom; and this is me, to wager that air, as proper as priests; but this is false, to hold for pressures, to give and not receive: the world is taking, and desperate for more, to give a middle finger. i laugh the pain, to ponder the truth: we want dice to forever sevens; where all is glory, for doing but nothing, where some are dying. “why should I see, when a world is cold, as bold as a nine miller meter?” we blast and move—staggered, the future a dream, filled with psychs. they jot but notes, a life i must live, as pregnant as a Vietnam warrior; where hurt is volume, a series of measures, to shoot a volt. i passion this mare, to see for spacial eyes, floating an empty room; in which are visions, to touch a retreat, to meet a human; and this is gray, to feature imagination, the time of a lifer; to love this lie, suspicious of truths, to feign comportment.     

Gesture of a Mindfurnace

where to find this mercy, this joy bottled in grief, to see her and shed a lung: to hear for darkness, the innocence of eyes, buried in flux. we take for diamonds, the heist of his soul, painted as mirrors; where communion is arts and fevers, and heartcaves and falcons, surging throughout a mindfurnace.     i thought to persuade her, this inward woman, tussling with afflictions; to see for legends, the death of deaths, pictured in the life of lives.     we know for another, an inward man, to peer at a delicate swan; to hear the purple flame, a volt through a century, to strike at reincarnation.     it’s ever the sentiments, to draw forth a tear, to hold it for the right moment: to see her countenance, filled with sullen joy, as it churns and tugs consciousness; for this is deepest love, a love through us all, to pay closer attention; in which is mercy, that very thing, found in the pond of souls.     i thought to persuade her, where insanity sings folly, falling for scraping and sprawling; where souls peek at awareness, to read through stanzas, swimming and trekking through swamps; in which are blemishes, called social scars, confined to this journey.     it was ever a flame, to spark an inner station, to push forward a beige force; where sadness is wisdom, and hatred is misery, cringing as an unknown scholar.     oh the measures, to sculpt a mindcave, at the mercy of discernment; to ferry this pressure, where it rises, a butterfly upon an eyelash.     could it live—this miracle sight, the gesture of a windmind?     i ask—adrift a skeleton, surfing for flesh; in which the nights—perform as ghosts, pitching at frontal lobes; the days of eagles, seldom but seen, a fire beneath the sea, an amazing cross.        

As Metaphysical as a Smile

there’s more this life, abandoned to shame, and hoisted out of mire; there’s more this life, the freedom of joys, that moment unconscious. we love through stimulus, this vulture at our souls, waning and wafting sluggishly; we live through heartsores, to morph into happiness, to return to this beingness; we complain at seldom parts, the fortune of strangers, unaware of the measures. if never to feel this craving, spawned in a cave, the angst would overwhelm; if only in spurts, as consistent as windmills, the lull of rain would sleep; as if eternity would feature a continuum of bliss, which would affect the apparatus of pain, sketching us into a stupor. if only for joycalls, this life as numb as too much sorrow, which entails an esoteric contradiction; for it’s not all tender, where art ruptures on impact, the lull of this deep rooted anguish. we see this in literature—to read to the point of enthrallment, where rain is resting soundly; we see it in love—pulled from deep the shells, to crack open a cocoon; as too see but a word, feathered with influx, can shift a countenance. we perish the absence, to wrestle dispositions, whereat a rose withers awaiting incarnation; we live the presence, of this fierce reality, as metaphysical as a smile; we’re lilting between extremes, to stumble upon wisdom, to meditate the sudden enlightenment; we’re then the kiss of forces, chiming through independence, aware of something lurking. some are to converse—even for the first time—to feel outwitted—by this touch of self, the petals of a tulip, to reason through propositions; but what is this life, filled with consensus, to offer the best concepts; to flourish until—the soul reasons further—into the recesses of needs?       

Lesions (Wounds)

It was death for life, as innocent as doves, to become frost bit. I looked to see, a tower of hells, forcing a reply; and god fell, beaten bloody, to raise a mountain. I cringe to hear it, a note for sour, my life in raptures; and yes the burn, afraid to speak it, to cross a zealot; and so many rules, to follow safely, to scream for mercy. I’m there, too tipsy to blink, to meditate this woman. We need for love, to dull out illusions, where tears wash souls. I waft to float, to drift through rites, as beige as turmoil; in which is life, and even for deaths, a mother pushing—and shoving—to build a man. I love her more, as tears fall, to write and disappear. Was it us, dead for living, a family of absentees? I ask—to know for answers, for pain was alive and molding—to sculpt a miracle, to crave a vision, to pull a psyche. I love it torn, to see it morph, and touch the universe; where art is sorrow, to die the graces, the face of confidence; and more for hate, to judge by mirror—the extent of a stranger’s life. I’m cold for it, and warm for it, to see receptive; and grandma died, screaming at walls, to know for a force; but not a soul took to pause, to feel the rain, dripping through psyches. They wrote it blankly, as detached as cops, to mock a legend. I love her more, to hear my heart, sparked and crying. The tour is over, and never this lot, to embrace a new tour. It’s soul to soul, and mind to mind, to give us truth; in which is joy, sitting and coughing, as sick as opinions. Forgive the essence, to want for concrete, to pass off a mere hunch; and oh the love—bent in cycles, to push for forward; where one breaks, to die the grains, and hates your life. I pray the light, to mend the night, at war with self—spinning and sipping—to give for more than woes. Its true your charm, to snag a heart, to live a heart-tare; and a goddess knew, as crafty as death, to snatch an eye’s vision; where pain grew, while love blossomed, to live this space; but more to mother, my heart and joy, my number one teacher.    

Green Seas

I love you—the cryptic of a heartbeat,

painting into this space.

I want this miracle, to

infuse health, to stream the giver of life.

It’s ever your tears, an

inrush of mercy, grieving the joys of such passion; where

art scribbles gestures, lilting to music, and foreheads

touching.

We imagine beauty, an anchor as a star, the soul of fireworks;

in which are colors, and selfhood flames, to tiptoe emotions;

as the goddess turns, a phantom as a friend, to summons

sunlight. We knit the future, through crossword puzzles, and

sculpting love; where hitherto, an antique locket, to picture a

reservoir. I love you—the cryptic of a heartbeat, a living

talisman; whereat is pressure, to capture perfection, to pluck a

chin hair. Our love is circuits—even a lovelock, as patient as

nursing.

I see healing lenses, to carry the measure, the physics of amore;

and something lovely, conjures symbols, to manumit our hearts;

where time is treasure, a moment at a bench, a vision as a

soulprint. I love you—the cryptic of mental flame, to enter

heaven; and thitherto, a shared koan, a Frisbee to a Labrador.    

The Rituals

It was Yahweh his soul, codified in glitter, reaching to push a thump; where angels dwell, clothed in fire, screaming the adventure; and there you stood, in garments of white, oils dripping the scalp. I love you dancing, where eczema is tamed, a flame churning the ember. Its life this rain, to coddle emotions, rebuking the inner mirror; where time is gentle, if only a moment, to engage the bleeding lights. Its cryptic candles, for scented vines, scratching frankincense. I see us dreaming, eyes heavy to blink, for jumping hearts; where engines rev, at peak performance, a Sensei’s visions. I hate to hate, to cull for righteous, where some warrant friction; for this is light, to wrestle snakes, while staring at fangs; but more to rites, for cultic tides, to scribble on a soul. I felt it thrice, a sound explosion, to stand the same space. I volt’d twice, to flood a vessel, to know that moment. There’s oh the meaning, for many stronger, the tides of confession. We must endure, to bungee hearts, to plant a culture. It’s more the grays, for valley reigns, to achieve something special; for we rarely know, to speak a voice, dealing with a martial expert; where strangers pause, to break for walls, to die on our behalf. This is passion, for Taekwondo, thrust’d through Tai Chi; where vessels learn, the arts of caves, crisscrossing fingers. I hear you more, to serve a cause, chatting through inner valves; where torn is love, its torn extent, to cherish the rituals; in which is silence, to utter vaguely, the treasure of one’s life. This builds for cords, a threefold bind, to share a secret; in which a curse, the birth of grays, to aid the misery. Its shooting stars, for gravid hearts, to stream into a sister.               

Hiking The Canyons

It’s taboo to sing oceanic sorrows, staring at painted skies: the feeling of neophytes.

We wrestle a listless state, an ancient motif, slicing a green apple. The drums are

tacit, to unearth the calm, where sober eyes till a psyche. I think of acquaintances,

and winsome misery, to picture soaring souls; for this is mercy, a quilted curse, to

commune with the Architect; and this is cages, to perish as symbols, alive in a dark               

space; where lowness can be a high, in which a high is torment, a frame to outline

the wretched. Of course the vase is filled with flowers, to watch the emptiness. It’s

the second of moments, to feel atwitter, searching for mnemonic joys; and love is

a promenade—to give that thing received—a hassle through the clamps. We smile

an elysian fountain, peering at statuesque poise, attempting to mimic romance;

where love can see, to confirm the plight, afraid of repetition. It’s rooted in

childhood, cemented in disease, and grounded in infusions; for the nectar proves as

sour, camouflaged in genetics, the waves of inward distrust. The form is exhaustion,

to whisper through zephyrs, to kneel for illumination; where undercurrents thrust to

break free, even unto an incandescent state; and thither to an end, a bit without

utterance, a flame atop the dark light. There’s a mind-cave, to juggle the sadness, to

reappear suddenly; whereat to pause, to hike the lone canyons, to release the

pressure and wonder if this is the measure of one’s heartbeat: the ups—the downs.  

To Scribble II

I speak to you, to discern epiphanies, grounded to perish. Its dark the vision, to visit the dervish, a cinema at a university. I feel for sorry, to know without knowing, an inmost scale; where times are gray, to give forgiveness, a paradise for images. Its distant love, an inner world, to hear your name. I thought for parody, the trajectory of pain, to coddle selfhood; but there aflame, the ignorance of love, to bathe a phantom.     There’re academic woes, to fight experience, to know for this plane: a blanket of scars, an anchor of tears, and a perfect costume; where death is gray, to ponder for breath, as opposed to living. Its opulent joys, to imbue a night, to awake in sorrows.

     I think of life, the rites of grieving, to feel a bit deeper; where naivety is anger, to see for geese, to lilt the anguish.     I love you moving, a woman becoming, as quiescent as a fist-fight.

     I laugh to think it, a portrait as a lullaby, an ineffable countenance.     We die in etiquette, a social design, to harness the spunk.     We’re earthenware, as resilient as skies, the aesthetics of love; for this is inrush, a pearl for a friend, as life-giving force; where hell is an unknown-self, streaming through souls, siphoned from sugarcane.

            I see you wheezing, to keep a secret, to search out a panacea; and Alcatraz my soul, as photic as

heartbeats, where face is grim, a sullen voltage, to affect the spirits; and women heard, to fence a protest, to 

dig for deeper; where God heard, to stem a rapture, to test for souls; whereat is ashes, and spirit-tongues, 

to toss the tarot-cards.     I end in love, to caress a thought, to believe in angst—filled with tension; for this is 

pride, to never the sight, to filter chi.     We cross a road, to give in prayer, to feel the iceberg; where love is 

trance, to blink and perish, to come to life. 

To Scribble

Upon a petal—this nightmare painted, experiencing hot flashes.     This thing chosen, for life is tender, to endure the anguish; but such is growth, this acrylic portrait, bleeding from sweat.     I see emerald tears, and diamond angst, a locket of pain; where grains are golden, to grip the cross, wailing in silence.     His soul is crying, fraught with heaviness, a patient disciple; where a woman dies, searching for keys, to ignore genetics. He feels for unfit, a private scar, to crisscross a vice. Oh the mystic, for birthstone sorrows, the offspring of addicts; in which is passion, and sapphire tears, a heart screaming a nightmare.     I feel a mist, to sprinkle a soul, a woman twice my grief; where pain wrestles, the death of innocence, where innocence writhes; and this is hell, to carry a vest, filled with wounds; but value is brilliant, for a cryptic soul, as cultic as an invisible kiss.     He saw a pendant, to culture a thought, where silence is cultivation; and she pondered, the bluest sea, stationed in-between.     I often wonder, to clamp an anklet, filled with visions baroque.     Its heaven for prayers, a private lot, as potent as an answer; where love is turquoise, for sacred blues, as touching as grays.     The Rock is Fire, the dice of treasures, to sip that Cup; and oh for rooks, pushed and pulled, a piece on a board; and thitherto, a moment with a psych, dying through particles; and what to say, gripping soil, to hear for differences.     I wish her well, to heal and soar, a soldier for a woman; but more to hells, and granite earth, to climb a brickwall.     It’s crazy this life, to build a castle—upon marquise clouds; and there to watch, a perfect stranger, to judge my heart; where death is shades, for marble prayers, the width of lights.       

Thought to Thought I Drift

We want for betterments—this eagle of a psyche, streaming through Sufi chants; where the tides are turquoise, the grunt of sable-eyes, a parrot pecking at a soul. We hear the geese, as simple as digestion, to grace a pond. I reasoned with a polecat, as wild as untamed, to garner a warning. It’s more the hiss, prior to the fangs, to cause for wincing.     (I drift)     I love you for unawares, as aware as a first argument, as structured as dingoes; where pain is gentle presence, the essence of halleluiah, in which are tears; for eyes are flushing rain, the texture of dry skin, as present as an African lion. I love you for more aware, the tern to turn through skies, as free as a hawk’s reflection; where to hang, through mid the air, akin to vampire bats.     (I drift)     You reckon me wrong, to want for contact, where venom was pictured. How for this thing—the lightning of sorrow, to know you wouldn’t care! It would be for ego, to feel for sexy, to love that very nature. I cried to cringe, sketching magpies, as tempered as a masked owl; where right is birth, the course of nightshade, to venture a woman weaving; whereat is silence, to want for taken’d, to give for one season. We laugh at hurtful mirrors, conversing with treebirds, the feeling of a red fox.     (I drift)     It was more the peacock, to trigger a thought, a swan courted by wolves; in which is strife, to watch the blue fox, peering through deer eyes’. I know not the future, where thoughts are pinkish gray—the blood of innocence; for hitherto, a gecko pokes for tugs, to sway the intellect; where pain is beige, the works of parents, to want an equal love. I see for pairs, to watch for jackals—that most precious heart.     (I drift)