Leaping as to Fly

I saw a ghost—these bulbous dreams, as confused with identity; but not to fall, this war of wages, as defused but alert; this tragic trauma, this welkin star, those arts at soul this scream. I loved through introjects, this sore infusion, as to welcome this chaos. We journeyed here, in this very space, alive that second before collapse—to resurrect, this new information, this walking encyclopedia. I asked a favor, floating through high seas, at course to return to hell; this cabbage of insights, this spirit we call Satan, while Yahweh mused upon Job. I must find us, traveling as unfound, this artifact as human; somewhere that dungeon, filled with visions, this daughter praying forgiveness. I’d like this venture, where two become colors—as flourished in topaz quartz; this miracle child, as to inform mother—“I saw a scream”; this image a jinn, as flitting through space, an all day séance; while teachers unite, filled with literature, as too filled with ghosts; this feral psych, this thorough therapist, these dreams caved in psyches. I can’t reform, as one for Jesus, this Christ this inner abandonment; so inform justice—this lord has beckoned, where hell has taken a sabbatical. I love a swan, pierced through with doves, as afraid to convey such feelings. I know a scream, painted in turquoise visions, where all is one color. I felt a scar, this woman he couldn’t ache, where such flooded his insides: this miracle child, this magic essence; this mystic turnaround. I should have perished, this story of ghettoes, as to flourish a king of this region: this immortal charm; this arm of days; that spirit that leaped his face. We heard a song, this melodious woman, as aunty fell her knees. I know a cousin, speeding through trials, alert to this grave injustice. We flit to fly, as to scud and fall, while wiping blooded knees; to remember this woman, this mother of—Naïve, as we float this galaxy. I paused a nation, this inner castle, fleeing through heartless cities; to lose a friend, this person he knew, where all this forsaken’d game. Our art is rolling, serviced at stations, while hell has rejuvenated. I heard a voice, this radio of times, at ills for I taught a swan; where this is bias, as to keep us sad, this story of fledglings; that infant smile, that gripping palm, our names embedded in Christ.