It
couldn’t be love—this fluorescent blue—this cyan inflection; as born so vague,
as crying in laughter, this breaking of voices. We died so early, to rise to
glory, this feeling that crawls through us; as ever this tension, this vague
algorithm, this exponential fury. It couldn’t be love—this mesto dream—this Artemis fever; to dance so gently, this abyss of
passions, to caress this outward vision; as to flourish this heart, as
seesawing souls—this skyward fantasy. Isn’t life ousia—this determined chase, where flame is but a confirmation? It
mustn’t have been love—this deep ingestion, this world screaming for wings; but
it must have been love, this inner whirlwind, a heart as a ladder; wherewith,
are sentiments, this indebted feeling—musing a mental phantom; hereto, to live,
a rainbow of crayons, this inner child vying so vaguely; as living through
dice, as feeling so vulnerable, one etching out securities; as falling asleep,
in arms of tempers, to morph into this feeling; where patience becomes love, and
patience becomes sorrow, and love becomes a pleasurous dance; as to roam
through vagueness, this portrait of fantasies, to awaken in this valley. It
couldn’t be love—this spiritual fire, as longing beyond reasons—as sifting
through passions, this festive of dreams, this gas—the fuel of a furnace—to
breathe so vaguely, to live through abstracts—as one yearning for concrete;
wherewith, are miracles, to identify love, to offset such vagueness; where
reason settles, into a vineyard of fruits, where two nibble apricots; this
fraction of concrete, to set aside logic, as to embark upon wings; this rising
kiss, this febrile love, this inner net of vagueness.
