It
shouldn’t be us, this selfish position, to have craved your soul; this miracle
feeling, as gripping winds, to have claimed a precious love. Those bars were
shut, that deputy on guard, this furious feeling denied; while reaming
seduction, those jumbled words, as plain nonsense. When men love, as sickly
souls, our feelings offend Babylon; that torrid curse, at verse, those eyes,
fleeing this catastrophe; as oh your soul, pushing vagueness, to have wants for
communion; or maybe love, this ambivalent feeling, this man a naïve fool! We
could but die, if but to live, where unsaid love would sit in souls; that
strong current, that fuse of lights, those years forming a friendship; as hard
to perish, while loving this volt, our mystic hearts writhing in torments; to
share our souls, lying as to sin, as forming this rich shamefulness. We’d cry eternal, staring at bulbous eyes,
carrying a petit fear; as to emerge a giant, while filming star-times, meshed in this esoteric charm; where anima loves animus, while both are afoul—this secret creeping into chaos; but
more to perfection—this glamorous mire—pictured as our deepest infection; to
rummage fires, as cupped in baptisms—our
eclectic rituals; to sing to Mary, or to tug at Yahweh—our nights filled a
texture ghostly; this inner poetic, enlove with prose, as formed this
fairytale—this fantastic blight, our souls as ruthless, to die that touch of
love. It’s more a journey, as raging in prayers, pushing forward to carry our
weary souls; that child as living, as looking to mother, while dependent this
mystic upon love. We must advance, as stripped of fears, if but to build a
legacy; but not as merging, this physicality, where hell would engulf
conscienceness; as brimming in science, or courageous at spirits, while gifted
through experience; this rich existential, while severed at souls, to embark
upon something iconoclastic; as not for heresy, but more this liaison, as
something foreign as power; to sink into mysticism, as pulling at yogis, while
performing priestly rites. It’s more this pain, of tugging feelings, as if
adults are unruly; but more to wisdom, as not to ruin, this inferno that rages;
as not for hell, but more for Spirit, while hearts flutter frequently; to lose
so much, aside that fatal touch, hiding as hushed in love.
