What
is this life, Love: the agonies of joy, the here-now and gone, that constant
agitation; to yearn for granite, in an abstract world, longing for
concentration; that sunstone bliss, that azotic topaz, those mystic moonstones.
We love in segments, to love completely, to feel a subtle ache; for love
restrains, to know for conscience, and jasmine ink; but what of family, that
familial love, as aqua as ocean eyes; to fret and dance, the sheerness of joy,
until the end has come. The memories bloom, through born charisma, the jutes of
Adonai. I heard an anthem, through sable mirrors, to reflect a clarinet; where
harps were souls, a subtle lament, a concept gone haywire; to feel for mesto, this grand piano, the portrait of
a child; to yearn for homecoming, the slant of metaphors, in which is chaos. Oh
the wild rivers, to nurture leopards, plus—a swan midair; to come to terms,
afraid to sing, where a mother hears your voice. There’s autumn country-sides,
and volcanic heartbeats, for an icy furnace; where this is limbo, a sacred
ancestor, the urgency of prayer. Oh for magic eyes, to blend with prowess, to
find one transfixed; but this is culture, the wealth of four parts, to nestle
in orange leaves. I love you should carry weight, to read each turn; where
maples bud, and apples become food, that closer a pure lament; that we fight
for such, sorting through clutter, to secure the bliss; to live the occult,
flaming firewood, to forget the ruts; in which is luster, the fuel of huts,
stationed in souls; to flit and fly, to scoot through clouds, effacing smaze
and smoke and pains and harms—that closer a breakthrough. I’m more a monk, and
stranded to the world, to give both flesh and bone; where gateways are musky,
the heaviness of scents, a fragrance to enter minds; but this is rare, the mask
of habits, sifting through, Rumi.
