By
far this grace, at pace with saints, steering energies; to become this man, at
woes with mercy, as unable to repay it; this gracile swan, this powerful
cygnet, this patient psych; to come to terms, this inner mystic, chiming with
celestial fires. I loved a vision, as
assuming attributes, as to love his brains. I must explain. Often we see projection, as wanting this
person, where unsaid person is but a figment; to meet by arts, to love by
deaths, to lose a fragment of sanity. I’m
watching tears, forming riddles, as awaiting that devotion; to pour it out, a
bit too sober, as clear as sky-glass: Was life so gentle, those travesties, as
becoming some sort of person; this vast delay, as to aside our lives, courted
for feeling those flaming nuances. I
treasure this soul, this infant through hooks, as claiming this dysfunction;
those terrible groans, that need for cigars, this heart at beats with myriads;
this mystic manic, sealed but forgiven, while searching this faceless legacy:
our silent souls, as sudden a sentence, that facial spirit; to adventure love,
this wonderful human, as to ask for commitments. I, too, am concerned—this woman with child,
as carrying those dreadful closets; to share with no man, as needing
redemption, to find such with unbelief. It
takes for purpose, this thing of letters, to realize our human worth; this tear
by vice, this vice by angst, this wind by Sartre as capital nothingness; to break a curse, while
dispositions linger, as to push passed this inner despair; where thoughts are
sluggish, our slaughter is fast, and life courses through demonic waves; to
touch a soul, with anger required, to refuse to perish by chance; this outer
man, seeking this outer woman, as two embark upon that voyage; but more to
love, this figment as human, to befriend by life this vest; that ringing bell,
that wringing soul, those rings at movies to symbol life. It could be real, as more invisible, for one
to outwit self; this horrible thing, where arts begin, as trying to explain
beyond our measures: that fabulous wind, as searching our nostrils, where
something appears with vengeance; to sit it out, as to soon return, threshed
through logic that event. I feel a swan,
as more an eagle, musing those pages of music. I feel a heart, as advanced
fully, reading as to see that mirror; this plight of souls, our family
secrets—our woes as creating chaos; to sing a dirge, lamenting life, as sudden
to adore existence.
