Colorful Figments

We soar as spirits, while sworn to privacy—such radiant mindcaves; to die at sunrise, this furious gun-war—arisen near nightfall; to harvest bones, to speak sinews, to savage warriors; this thread of monsters, as angels have hearts, this organ reared through legacies; as spoken soulprints, that inner spywave, that outer skyfire; to perish to birth, this facial excitement, while driven a locus as protein. We could but live, as naked jewels—our aches as sexual; but this is war, this mental priest, fighting a fist full of sins; that timid urgency, as forbidden woes—this prophetic love. I knew a heart, as unknown that heart, at which, an airpump this heart; this frantic secret, as spoken in silence, to state it plainly as unseen: that miracle mind, that inner soul-slave, as carved from gravel: that tedious test, treasured as passing, at needs, this lady’s freedom; for hell is passion, this inner analyst, as driven by fusions our brains; while love is spirit, this communion of animas, at wars to cry a perfect kiss: that outer dream, as gothic those nights, where beauty entered this world. It should be grace, that inner feud, where wholeness is claimed as works; as both to powers, this intimate cavern, that log flickering at shadows; as gravid that soul, those immortal eyes, as kissing his mind: that echo of wildness, that forest of graves, those ponds at tension that curse; that gracious dungeon, purported for years, as released to wreak heaven’s havoc—that secret by thoughts, as to read it closely, to fathom pure forgiveness; as mortal a child, this immortal adult—if minds be cursed; to see it printed, this engine of angels, this flipper to oceans; as cured our souls, to grave degrees, at war this subtle sphinx; as sought redemption, trekking through darkness, a palm pelted in prickles; that trickle of blood, as flogged to breathe, standing nigh a portico; where love is rare, this praise of duties, as ever a fugitive. We know appearance, this outer condition, as fettled towards perfection; to flit to fly, this gymnasium of clouds, as every bar a tendency; to cut a cord, racing this sexual life, as ever that heart but fire: that cuff to wrist, that key to life, that mother to wisdom—as guided with dearness, as living earless, at tragic nights but fearless. Our days are cornered—we must adventure, at knells this cryptic whistle; to see with passion, as newly born, raving by function those hearts!