At
points in time, we catch visions, similar to pictographs—whereat, are horsemen,
bowmen, or thickets; even lions, wolves, or leopards; to see us float, as never
quenched, wrestling those quells of life; this Erebus, as sighted in fiction,
to realize something was spoken; those hidden dimensions, this world of
similes, this portrait as hasty our minds; to decode a falcon, or debone a
griffin, at moments singing with Jeremiah: that welkin dirge; those lamentations;
to arrive at somber peace. (Did we lose to gain?)—as fretted as mothers, our
masks but seconds abroad; to enter mass, as cold as purgatory, as warm as that
very place; where crows are enormous, plucking at a statue, our music as
darkness through owls. Our tense has shifted, exploring new terrain, as all
things must change—else for torture, a parcel as an omen, trekking five inches
of quicksand; to grip a quilt, as to watch it sink, while sudden a rainstorm.
We’re counting images, our sails for regrets, a bit too partial to rants: those
seated throws, as skewing reason, to utter—“It must be true”; where pieces are
wailing, for this thing of comforts, while minds are bent on tortures: this
mile a minute; that locomotive; that scarecrow scaring nothing; as feeling
blackmailed, while stuck to silence, where engrams are forging an earthquake:
our souls as riddled; our minds as captured; this valve leaking sulfur. It had
to be love, this seashore agony—our pictures as seeming distorted; to ask of
time, those morbid questions, as to realize a hint of joys. (I confess a truth): We get more from this,
than we do from that, where that is feigning as normal. Our aches are roses,
this playground of wisdom, this sign seated on a sofa; to paint a tuffet, this
streaming thunder, as sighted that lightening: this inner castle, plaid with
experience, to ask of this telic future. I felt a rhythm, to escape formats,
wherewith, is a bit decorated; but truth to lights—our purple existence, a
zephyr as a whisper; that inner vase, as chasing pigeons, to ask of one—“Please
speak”; where times are surreal, to hear that voice, at once, that volcano:
this inner dimension, as sighted intuition, a swan to voyage waves.
