I loved your eyes, leaping as membrance, this space of
visions; to pace this tunnel, peering at bright lights, severed at souls; this
deep inflection, speaking at walls, this sight distorted. I watch a dove,
seated in turmoil—this mother a well of confusion; but this is life, our grave
misfortunes, while deception feigns control. We live in darkness, this
spirit-design, as to defuse deep insights; this kernel of facts, a bit
subjective, where laws correlate with affections; that space of hearts,
channeled as to fly—this swan a legacy; where hell is vicious—this mother to
son, as to induce a mansion; that faraway zone, this desert of fools, trekking
as to see mirages; that place of torture, to arise as monsters, as to appeal to
a goddess. I break to rise, infused with words, as to mitigate affections; this
inner war, courted by professors, this source of endless betrayal; as not for
hurt, but more for motive, something distant from altruism. It shouldn’t be
life, while glaring at love, this actress a form of angst; that inner charm,
that vixen of soul, as aloof as our powerful swords; to venture this mission,
in touch with forgiveness—this woman a product of lies. I sip through a.m., to
arise at p.m., this villain a thread of theology; to sing about mischief, this
brave advance—this woman peering into souls. Our crave is ink, this locket in dreams,
while fuses inflect an ocean; this space of tears, as longing for adventure,
this someone to rescue a blank sheet. It becomes eczema, this constant dryness,
where flesh inflames—while hearts simmer, thrusting volts—this place of
returns. I need a raft—these heinous slopes—our waves channeling omens; to see
for actions, this passion of fools, drooling as nearly comatose. It couldn’t be
love, this feral adventure, that moment embedded in observation; where dolphins
sing, this thing of swans, as to remember this fatal song; whereto, is fiction,
this theater of woes—this place soaring in Shakespeare. I could but fly,
through weary wings, while circling this cygnet star; but this is misery, that
instant grace, our souls a countenance of passions; to flee existence, those
years of thought, as something foreign upon return; but this is breath, this
inside flesh, alert to follies.
