Breath Never Conveyed Its Mystery

So ruined this mountain; so craved this justice; as mere a mortal—racing as seated, embraced by lights, as cursed by existence—this melted feeling, as something profound, this spark as breath our cadence; this daughter driven, her mother riven, this world watching—as lingering time, a magpie as a kite, a lizard as a harpoon; to cry those measures, at sheer an ant, associated with proverbs; to remember that word, as mere a thought, attached to memories. It should be gentle, riven asunder, our particles cleaving to chaos; to perish thrice, tending a black cat, slanted towards Wicca: that miracle as eyes; that challenger as souls; our hearts to glens that vacant valley; as soothed to beauties, at desire to merry-go-round, as mere an art of attractions; but stood he died, as craving infinity, those arcs to cherish with skies: that blackened soot, that ache as smaze, to inhale by lights that thunder: our broken courage, as to know this name, our furry exploding through courts; to reckon his soul, as damaged that death, at tears to adventure that first month—where tears spoke of others, that vicious soul, to have embedded shame; that shattered ecstasy, at pride returns, to give that part of self—at angles to prove worth, while kissing wings, to float by arts that shifted angst: to love again, this abusive love, if but to render self-pride. It’s hectic our nights, at dreams our mirrors—tomorrows a new day: that bridge of thoughts, this deep ingestion, this sober outlook: peering at justice, at cross that darkness, as to wander through ghettoes—this rich insight, to suture our women, as enduring from birth—while giving of love, as sacrificed to Jesus, as becoming holy villages: this person we sighted, while deep conversations, but a reflection of a neighbor’s soul; to have lived forever, accustomed to this body, while reaching this hex for unction; that faint anointing, that father’s curse—our mother’s affliction. It took to cadence, this innate rhythm, this man shot for torn by agencies—as turned his life, our daughters at war, so gray with time’s wisdom; to cast a voice, as fishing near harbors, this mixture of love through deaths; as born that mind, that teacher of ages, at kisses this rich melancholy; to embrace living, while shattered a ghost, agaze by this feral affection; for deaths come, while to ruin affections, where strength must prevail: this cymbal as wailing; this country of wise men; our purposes as driven into concrete; to see that voice, those cultic symbols, that miracle woman; to have our wounds, dipped in Clearasil, made perfect by breath.