My
dearest swan-priest; our calm has settled, the moon is bloody, adrift our
notions; to panic come sunrise, to worry come sunfall, this festive of pains;
but I beckon gods, this internal white magic, as blended with psalms. Its
twilight zones, to piece this puzzle, as to wonder of ethics; this thing of
ought, to behave in sequence, alive for but a moment; to then gaze—into
something morbid, as to live this life; but oh for love, this absent kiss, to
ignite an inner flame. Partake of life, this outward chalice, as to grieve in
silence; wherewith, are jewels, to compose a future, drifting through jasper
moods. There’s stardust, as upon a star, as disgusted with disappointments; for
it looks so grim, to speak with hearts, to learn for fortune; hereby, are
scars, as left to swoon, but our product is rain. There’s steadfast trauma,
this sleepless web, as inner segue; this cultured frenzy, for a thousand winks,
grooming our feathers. I want for deepness, this steep enchant, to shatter
ignorance; where friends are few, as coffins are many—this inmost love. It
couldn’t be real, our wildest whispers, as for wine and wafer; this torn
mishap, this pleat of spells, to infuriate our swan; therewith, is rage, our
furies of hell, to see a tremendous disjunction. It mustn’t be real, to anger a
vine, as to offset a swan; but this is life, to outwit turmoil, despite the
circumstance. I’m black with passion, as light to faith, this sage leaping from
a cliff; as to mock this science, as to hail our forbidden, this crane of
adventure. It’s a bit creative, to jog intellect, our journey for an antidote;
hereto, a thorn, aching our foibles, our quest—a heart of kneeling; to push us
forward, this tropical leaf, this gale of adventure; as purpose to soul, as
root to grain, this outward expression; but I love this grit, our courage of
honor, as gnawing upon Eden’s fruit.
