May
it live, Love—this furious future, involved with living; as mere spirits, at
love for closure, at wars with spectators. (I see it coldly, this thing of
perceptions, to give us what it couldn’t gain: this sphere of joys, by measures
of mirrors, acclaimed by no man); but ours is deadless, this anti-nothingness,
revolving in sea-hells—to see for
eyes, this mystic gem, a shower of hailstorms; where thoughts blossom, an inner
acorn, at sprouts those heavens. (I see it warmly, this cult of performances,
rewarded with kisses; that’s mother’s touch, and father’s approval, this
balance by way of appearances; where serpents hiss, that proposal of fruit, this
deep abuse; to have for arms, at reach that cloud, as scraping his lungs); but ours is deadless, this stalking faith, at tears
that hunt for Christ; to find us seeping—that
very fabric, a bit flippant with atheists; if but for space, that tired ass
story, invocative of all men; but nomads journey, seated at hearts, forever a
mental womb: as fecundity and life and troubles and resolve—this inner
influence, to ask of dead souls their names. It gets that way, a frontline
spirit, that outer vanguard; to see our dreams—that Scarlet Faith, as grieving multiple loses; where burdock blossoms
and myrtle trees sing, while fathers tug at those very seasons; where love was shared,
as screams silenced, while tombs opened. Ours is deadless, this stage of lights, weighing those motives of hearts;
to give by currency, this test of souls, as trekking train tracks—that reign of
passion, that limbic mystic, that mourning hemisphere. It should be life, this
man at bars, this soul at scars—as pondering madness, two scores of hells, that
murky sunlight—as gray to cultures, this inner contagion, while passing
something deceived; but ours is deadless,
this hawking tribe, flowing through teachers, at faces with psychs, as
fools for growth—to love for freedoms, at hearts and kidnapped, as lithic as
that first inscription. It takes for passion, to scribble an art, while
perfected through cries: that inner anguish; those screaming motives; that
wailing ambition—if more that slant, that mental shelter, that reaming echo; to
die for courage, as to speak exhaustion, as to flourish that unction of souls. I’m
painting banshees, as mere an inner cry, doodling blocks of ink—that inner
pattern, as mother’s pastime, agaze some sort of trauma. I watched, amazed, as
silence spoke, to pass a bit of wisdom. It gets that way—this cryptic advice, a
pillow to a wound—as more to perish, this rustic village, that remote creek—to
stream by brooks, peering at deers, conversing with bunnies; as born to thorns,
that easy dismissal, for hell is silent; as more to see, that curse through
thoughts, that outer contour—to break a temple, to invade a soul, to yearn with
desperation; that memoir bleeding, that inner trespass, that sickness through
skies.
