Often
we love with reason—this mental magnet, terrifying our souls. We die with treason,
this ninety percent chance—that the tides will pass. We live as actors,
petrified of losing, manipulating with signs; as often bred this way, born out
of dungeons, with a list of ambitions. I fault us not, as a cliff to sea,
anticipating that brief in-between. Our pressures our mourning, this inward
cave, to arise heavy with mindfulness; as pecking at thoughts, as ignoring
introjects, as to reason this heartbeat. It mustn’t be love—the long souls are
churning—our arms reaching into mist. I see us as dreamers—this argument for
love, as to siphon each premise: the never goodbyes, the calm enragements, this
self screaming at ghosts; to ponder such exits, where minds haunt caves—and
caves implode. I plucked a feeling, thriving at the Pacific Coast, as time
spawned a web. I pondered passing’s, the exhaustion of feelings, as to arrive
at heartbeats: this inner thrumming, this slight embrace, as to wonder of its
nature; where love is furious, an actual life, striking through prophecies; to
have this moment, staring at waves, as they clashed against boulders. I seeped
into suds, while fingering seaweed, as one grieving a mirage. It’s ever his
mind, the cravings of a prophet, considered as mad in our age; to stress
energies, as searching reverberation, upon an anxious peak; where law is love,
the arms of visions, the limbs of his soul: this fated art, this casual grin,
this inward frustration. Our roads are melded, as to direct traffic, a son tap-dancing
through heaven; to see our eyes, as covered in rain, where nary a tear falls. I
can’t but fathom, this stripped perception, where his yearn is his mind; so
more evasion, as to pass mirrors, and forgot his image: that feeling bled, as
to culture his pulse, that closer this stage of life; as born to ponder, as
torn to grieve, as electrocuted by emotions. It couldn’t be love—but more his
mind, as enthralled by mystery: the stars of Zion, the whispers of souls—that
far away island embedded within; to have for séance, that something elaborate,
that deep intuition; which calls for clearance, as to erase love, where
feelings grow independently; but more the nights, that tipsy to rest, where
morning is revelation.
