It
seems bellicose, some type of war, vying for powers; this sore distraction, or
maybe merging, this song’s vacuum; as seated in humans, this wind of daughters,
while fathers sit in stillness; this brooding love, etched in time, stippled
upon silence. I caught a dream, as knowing this thing—while sketched in
Illuminati: this art of brains, stitched in waves, where hearts aflame—that
crucial second, as born dying, each segue a milestone. I loved a voice, as to
call it God, fumbling through delusions. I felt a feeling, as sure intensity,
to believe in truths; this sheer illusion, as graphed in fantasies, to arrive a
song by birds: this strong disruption, fidgeting with beauty, to make
frightened that beauty; as torn ecstasies, peering at swans, running through
cornfields—or even cotton, a soul unlocked, arriving at branches; to become a
limb, fidgeting with tendons, an extension of soulprints—those diamond tresses,
those magnet eyes, those calves supporting infinity—as less a legend, while
more depression, having such seconds of warfare; to find this art, this
incredible moon, bombarded by forces—this melody moving, as a sphere in
falls—our walls measured as resistance; this common thread, if for that reason—as
something so simple. It could be life, this illumination, where powers are
vying for powers—as sad that mischief, as sordid that woman, as spectators
watch; to hush this miracle, as sighted unseemly, siding with non-sense; but
more to motion, this furious force, as treasured Luminous. I wish to see us,
trekking a garden, as vulnerable as love: this Japanese wisdom; that German
tenacity; our French as dearly romantic—to touch a soul, as caressed in warmth,
to have you as his own; but more to daughters, as melic as heartbeats, surging
by lighted volcanoes; to hymn our woes, while watchers stare, carded in our
courtyards—as treading ice, this sickle as silence—your ways confusing; for
what is love, that it roams our valleys, attached but seeking—if but to sing,
this curious child, embedded in fiery cries? I hear for choirs, this slanted
echo, speaking that reason dies; this
affair of hearts, our swans computing, this thing of desires; as melancholic
laughter, ignored by fancy, to watch us comport. It becomes rhythmic, as seated
in behavior—those subtleties cast to winds; but more to love, this cymbal as
swords, this camera as flashing!
