I turn hell into a journey, as opposed to affliction, this
light flickering at dawn; as to post bail, this camouflaged tint, this skeleton
with wounds; to see for gods, this goddess-dream—too dear to dissolve passions;
this crashing island, in need of contact, before dementia sets in: a psych in a
suit, a professor in a gown, a doctor in a vest; to profess this love, this
bladder of liquor, this night as final. We pass for tests, invested in hells,
as too far to retreat; but filled with joy, this deep contradiction, this
fevered oxymoron; to shadow a serpent, as something so evil—this terror as
humility; wherefore, was angst, this painted grief, to evolve through
heartbeats; where life is game, this crooked viewpoint, accustomed to this lie.
I loved her that way, to re-filter facts, this swan as a monument; for hell is
a journey, as to re-pleat breath, stationed at her crossroads; to fair-away
this passion, as crux to soul—this inner venom; where mothers claw, to break
for graves, as to slap a son; where life is jewels, this patient fool—pursued
by ghosts; as living torn, a fist full of dreads, this anxious review. We churn
through hells, that feeling as gone, but rarely that close; to carry like gods,
this goddess as a dream, where we couldn’t measure—that height, that scream, that
flickering dungeon; to die this love, as fully mature, enough to replenish an
inner calm; as far this pain, too close to reach, as panicked in a chest; for
cedar yearns, as crossed that tear, as flooding this lagoon. I’ve lived to
feel, as one abandoned, stressing through daycares; as told to sit, a fist full
of pills, as to finally regroup; where years are many, to live such static, as
revving through a winepress; to simply recharge, for life was slipping, as
captured in a cell; to read each line, this inner discussion, a bit
anti-social; as a decadent fool, to refuse love, as measured by a higher
element; to dream with passion, as crashing love—a voice so near!
