Its
cords and jutes and ropes, to fever this love; where images breed, the fad of
times, this thing called love. Sirens
blare—the art of broken color as sought both goddess and enchantress; but long
the dread, to fervent this night, as tears fall the Belle.
I’d perish to outwit
death,
to tailor her name, the fabric of
this hybrid child; for it’s unto exile, the girth of this cry, reaching for a
turnstone; where skies are clear,
to push a rook,
to pawn our integrity;
for love is lethal, the climb of the nights, as whet as rabid
wolves.
Its
cords and jutes and ropes—to central this curse; for oh the beauty, that
constant pursuit, the hymn of a koan; to plant a song, for otic waves, to flail
the indecision; whereby to flourish, as we perish these ten weeks, the nave of
our chaos.
Remember for us,
the building of numbness, the oak of sorrows; for oh to say it, to grow a
reputation, to give utterance reality; for palms are joyful, to mourn this
contrast,
alive
for this outcome;
to fever the moment,
albeit the
plaint of love, to grow in that instance; where essence blooms, the weft is
magic—in turn this torn experience.
