I’m
seeing spaces, these mystic allusions, stolen from self: those infinite
seconds, those wordless seconds, grieving to witness such seconds. I’m calling
phantoms, as cryptic as thoughts, nigh a precipice; at turns to spirit, at
worms to life, to see self enter its carcass. I reappeared; unsteady his chase;
afire this vest of grandfathers; as hell dissipates, as focus intensifies,
while thoughts are blank. I’m mourning mother, this Protestant mystic, a bit
too cold for closure; to finally let live, as life has morphed—into an
Antarctic freezer: this obstinate space, as broken to explain, while damn near
apophatic—as more to perish, this wealth of darkness, to find such silence
excruciating: that gust of lava, as inverted coldness, while reaching towards a
fervent muse; to extend misery, those public squares, at thoughts to jettison
thoughts: that cordial pain, at fluff in minds, while further removed from
passions: this field of vibes; this clove of silence; this snatch by shoulders
a release. I’m seeing fires; I’m holding flints; I’m but a pebble cast to
seas—to toss by wells, as nigh this furnace, too close that arc of visions; to
awaken harshly, this fulgent contour, at woes that near escape. We wrestle
remnants; tugged by societies; at wars this defense of lightening; as fools to
deserts, or shamans to lakes, or souls to set for sails: this inner yearning,
this want for more, our experiences tucked in a shoe box: that sudden inrush,
as concerning chi, where motives appear askew; or full possession, as
psychosomatic, this portrait of mother; or more a presence, for one so damaged,
at wars through perception; that line as thin; those mallets as soft; that curse
as looming its family history. I
vanished; this island of charms, this lurid affection—as more to persons,
slanted through meadows, arising from ashes; that space in arts, that hymn in
hearts, those sparks aloof at closeness; this far nearness, as winter leaves,
while sketched by designs: a tress to life; a cauldron of potion; this fusion
by math a human brain; to die that rubric, enchanted as mystics, this yen for
captured souls: or more mirages; or more illusions; or plain delusion; this
stream of silence, when science fails, as to insist upon falderal—but way too
easy, this tomb for souls, while seeking to link a cause to an effect.
