By
grace we fly, inhaling sirens, this contrast between sights verses ambitions;
as souls with wings, our minds as engines, shifted in parts by existence; to
arise eternity, this endless friend, by thoughts this mystic force: surging
through winds, forsaken to islands, by chance that distant furnace—where souls
dream, this catcher of visions, abandoned to something hopeful: our curious
fevers; our enflamed hearts; this travel by vortex an arc—as telic designs,
dancing before fires, at moons this mental séance—to course eternity, tugging
at immortality, as driven this beautiful smile: those cadent ripples; to enter
his soul; this dance around something caprice—to face adventures, at courage to
fly, while steeped in murky marshlands. I
remember wisdom, this fetching mayfly, while perusing this outer person; where
distance prevailed, this wall of madness, while peaking from podiums; to cry by
justice, as feelings soared, this magic by rites a torpedo: that foolish
trespass; those midnight songs; that retreat back to caves; to live as sullen,
while to muster up courage, where yesterday influenced survival—this chasing of
waves; this canvas of doves; our achy minds fettled by thoughts; to come to
mystics, afloat this bubble, as to circle by rights that sphere—as time
returns, shifting through minutes, this wealth a kiss of utterance; to declare
as holy, this feral atmosphere, as close as two could be distant: that inner
soul, as an outer force, coursing through cosmos; to ache a heart, while
infusing a soul, this call for something restricted; that broken gate, that
squeaky hinge, those fences near our hunches. But oh to fly, partly under
siege, racing through fields—as born to breathe, seasoned by mentors, aflame
these feathers of miracles; to have our rites, or to feel such fevers, revved
by arts this inner carnival; where mothers watch, frantic by intuition,
prepared to perish if called; this trenchant paradox, while convinced by
motives, our songs adrift this inner portal; where confliction stirs, by root a
force, while daughters wrestle for identity. I’m a soul by flights, steered into faraway
lands, peering at a series of souls: that electric power; that fallen cry; or
more those triumphs out of rising skies; to see those faces, born through
passions, at wars to live righteously; where children sing, as angels of life,
imbuing our souls with strengths.
