If
I hold canvas, to paint mystics, as to live this life, would love blossom; if I
die—to scold untruth, to live it by skies, would love blossom? We spoke a
fever, this casual myth, as if unreal. It’s a faint mirage, to signal truths,
as gifted for anguish; that fatal affliction, to arise as gems, our souls a
passage through arts; to live as if born, to hold composure, to exchange
livers. We now exist—as picture to frame, as cloud to sky. There’s but one
voice, to permeate the lonely, to undergo the storm. I loved in secret, to
infuse a swan, a generation of mystics; as if reborn, as filled with joys, as
the night of our appearance. Its close the fame, a woman of patience, to sculpt
a thousand tears; or live a long nose, to mimic destruction, as one nigh the
edge; or cry this vest, as years of acid, to morph into a queen; for it
couldn’t be, the long goodbyes, followed by volts, extinguished as a moment; to
flit through flights, a second for drinking, as patent this venture; as to
imagine love, a half filled balloon, to know of never. We’re far too young, as gripping chaos, this gentle
catastrophe; where I’m far too old, as blinking with angst, for loving a
phantom. The tides churn, the ocean gasps, there’s a funeral for the living.
I’m lost this source, the riddles of knowledge, to carry the future; as dying
to live, as living to die, this mission of men; as broken at lights, to woo a
dream, to chase a mirage. Oh the love, to hear for woes, the throes of a
generation; but what is life—as shielded from eyes, the weariest forests. It
mustn’t be, this torn address, to drape in elegance; as not to feel, the scent
of pain, graphed through crevices; as if to live, while something dies, the
truths of our encounters.
