I
come to you sleepless,
with
eyes shut solid, alas,
this
frontier;
as
screaming, aha,
the
plot of our movie, that closer to a screenplay; but
it couldn’t be us, sipping through shadows, alert to subtle vexations;
and it mustn’t be us, to cuddle our swans—that gifted a moment grieving
—to
gilt our shame, as love amidst, this kiss through bars.
Its
busy scars, seeping through thoughts, where caves explode Elijah’s;
where
I
can’t but dream, this fiat of dreams, as forbidden from dreams; to court
Fantasia, this trip with Poseidon—this passion and zeal and roots of Zeus;
to
escape that moment, where hell presses its finger, alive but a second in
breaths;
to
invest so little, divested of tears, where pain shifts its anger.
It’s
pure denial, this vest of running, as our scissoring eyes;
where
pain is glory, as writing through trauma, a mystic and his bride;
to
fever through actions, this grave obeisance, that further the psych’s
destination;
whereat,
for tides, these tales of pirates, where a goddess saves lives;
so
I see you more, as torn asunder, a hand for wakeless souls;
to
court the majesty, as fury-infused, to walk as electricity;
for
oh this night, a sister of days, explosive at noon;
to
have for perfect, this inner disaster, a feeling of abeyance;
to
love for breath, this awkward scream, ten miles further to Neptune;
as
loony it was, the girth of moons, somewhere this ribcage;
as
granted death, this cleft in souls, to heal and die for graces;
where
it couldn’t be life, this deep exhilaration, a swan at a table—where ink is
preaching;
to
know for love, this hamper in dungeons, as to finally crawl out; and died this
vein, as hyper as Argus—this inner centaur;
awakened
with mercy, this curse of feelings, to strangle a would be giant;
as
infused and humble, this chime in a vase, stressing this fatal embrace;
to
purchase wax, as to watch it melt, as to write a dissertation.
