Closer to Frequencies

To find for floating, this casualty of love—aforetime a young scoundrel—the sweetest taboo, as tunneled in caves, this cemetery of mystics. I’ve drowned in love, as affected deeply, speedish as unaffected—this laundry of men, this balcony of love—our patio carved in affections—to dance by measure, this tapping to chance, a whirlwind of explosives; where pagans sleep, cushioned by madness, accused of heresy. I’ve cried injustice, patient to deaf ears, at wars with this mirror—that inking cadence, dripping into prose, but a fool as charmed by spirits; where passions mingle, this reluctant art, passive to feel as removed; this furious fire, to know such aim—our credence as seeping underground; this space of visions, courted by negligence, awake as restless through midnight. I heard a soul, traipsing nightfall, nursing a nightingale—to see for culture, this pruning of wings, as alert to this soul—where fevers mellowed, as cellos echoed—this vase by voices; to shiver through silence, this infant whisper, at course this segment of operas; whereto, our piercing eyes, as to see for shadows, this shade in trembling souls—as screaming for kittens, this lurid dream, to awaken reaching for images; that fire we share, as enlove with arts, singing for flying into music; this channel of minds, to find that frequency, as lost but found a dream; to reason with swans, this culture of ballerinas, fleeing through watery deserts; this marsh of men, as drills to gravel, afloat a mental onyx; where cheetahs roam, this trope for thoughts, alive come love this wistful art; to know as fledglings, this inner chase, as to arrive as dragons; this frightful song, made whole through adversities, as sought through pains that fever; where souls shift, as shivering through rhyme, this reason in hearts to persevere: such demarcations; such senseless woes; this thought in self as paradoxical; for hell was vivid, but not for child, this thing as wrestled-unholy-arms; that deep clarity, to hurt by arts, through means that prove affective; as others peter-out, for they mean for little, as all the more to strike bones; this path as lights, while killing souls, to witness as love destroys its affection.  I chose a flame, this arch in cathedrals, while knitting our portrait; to know such names, as fraught reverberations, this lake of swimming debris; where souls vanish, if but that touch, where minds coalesce—to flute through time, an orange as a gesture, a peach as coming closer; whereto, this silent ache, as carried in brains, this cymbal streaming into consciousness; to see our canvas, splayed in colors, affected by rains.