Imperceptible Swan

We’re sick for love, a pair of strangers, threshed through affliction; to render this shame, while beckoned to die, but searching immortal lives. I’m there, Love—greeted by turmoil, reckoned by happiness; this wealth of candor, as borne an undertaker, to ponder a cygnet; this swan of persons, unlike our vests, seeking where pastures roam; but less to swans, and more to souls, as painted in fluorescent greens; this forest of woes, our sacred jinn, by more an inconvenience; where truth was buried, this perfect daughter, as misrepresented. I know a song, to flourish by days, where nights became so dreary; whereat, are cells, or candent distrust, to peek into infinity. I speak in riddle, where fingers ponder, as to enchant our swan; this imperfection, where time is weary, but steady at trekking millennia; or more a vision, this vague perception, for our sun rises to fall. I’m sipping burgundy, to session mother, that heart my heart of souls; to tap at cadence, this inner rhythm, stepping into futures—where hell dissipates, as souls converse, where tears drop in agony; for, too, is spirit—our eyes to meet, this dread of that second; to meet with grief, or greet with laughter—as both camouflage this voltage of hatred; but more to chi, this rapid concession, while eyes are restless; to thump and flee, this sea of canvas—our names immortalized in pains. If love is gentle, as often for harsh, our days shall embrace sweetness; but more to truths, our inner scars, as feeling abandoned. I knew for father, this absentee, but never for prose: I knew for mother, this present force, but never for love. It tells of anguish, this misguided soul—embarrassment or pleasure; to know for others, this vibrant image, where hell lurks in shadows; but more to impressions, as taken center stage—our behaviors patterned to perfection; to kiss for agony, or sheer contempt, where parents are desperate to appease; if but for comfort—this immortal light, as to render praises from our children; or more to silence—those nights of musing—our brains restless from issues. I see us young, while to feel us flying, if but that perfect tear; but more to truths, as to crawl through mire, those images painted for years; where father dies, as mother lives, while family endorses a wealth of fancies; but life is perception, as altered with truths, to picture an image for self: those casual lies, those deep misprints, that odor of miscalculations; to judge for self, as breaking free, while to claim ownership; this place of souls, as sailing through seas, if but to park upon waves.

I adore an image, pictured in gravel, a Buddhist swan—or more a pilgrim, landing upon morals, stranded at ethics; to come to live, as to come to die, flavored by antipathies—this thing as that, that thing as this, peering at craven vowels; this light of passage, to appease a moment, where oaths lack substance; our effluent streams, stippled in disappointments, to meet by chance a fallen voice. I love an eagle, to emulate sages, while deference is shown to truths; this eclectic peril, stranded at imperfection, attempting to clear our debris; where daughters perish, as built to survive—this thing a bit alarming! It couldn’t be real, while claiming in love, this danger to minds; as ephemeral karma, this livelong affliction, a woman at ninety of suffering; to write a eulogy, as spoken to graves, where such was left unsaid; that florid language, to die each word, where tears flush through pores; this guileless heartbeat, this hapless station—our souls at wars for wrongs; but this is life, our incorrigible songs, to infer something terrific: this agent of symbols, tapping at pianos, or more this fantastic seamstress; to know infallible, struggling this second, to affect that muteness of brains; where latent feelings arise with honors, to kill something insipid; those muddied colors, that listless root, those laudable infections.