Letters
are burning; pictures are melting; a cedarchest is set to flames: there’s
broken glass, a fist to windows, a bolder to fiberglass: our carpet is wailing,
lovers are sighing—so close to perish that crooked charm; as music falters, our
symphony mourns, our children tremble beneath covers: its hell our nights,
fumbling to breathe, adjusted by fine ideas: that chiseled agony, as gray as
memories, this place in time but a moment: to share by hearts, coming to
conclusions, abused one last art—to tremors that curse, at love as beasts, our
furry explosive as climax. We chance those deaths, a couch of secrets, a
loveseat as witness—irregular arms, at flights to terror, so precious as
beautiful our love: those knitted allusions; our segue rhythms; that steep
stigmatism—to alarm angels, that faint appearance, jogging for running our
treadmills grieving—to bounce his heart, this scheme of stanzas, our tones but
verses—to curse infinity, dying a puddle of tears, our satin memories—at birth
a tension, our fathers mourning, as mother so cunning—to wonder departure, a
ballad at funerals, our children feeling abandoned: to see such truths, our
laughter by stigmas, that agile melancholy; but ours to live, as complicated
persons, so steep in psychologies: that rounded chaos; that terrible promise;
our farce to appease angst: that psychotic soul; so distant a leaf; able by
silence to cause discomfort—as it must for danger, this vest of feelings,
otherwise, I’m to peer at self—that deep inadequacy, that need by pliable
wings, our curse as imprinting mental boards. I loved a song; it sang of glory; it nursed
our egos—as hell appeared, screaming pluralities, forced to appraise that
internal pendulum—as feeling trapped, while reaching for insanity, if perchance
to become famous: this unspoken nuisance; that charming sociopath; our mirrors
pleading every theory: that locomotive; that rare enchantress; our eyes as ears
as feigning deafness—to curse our souls, while forced to comport.
(We danced like villains. We admired
treacheries. We forgot our mirrors…this terror by grays, as never that bold,
where sex disguised treason…that musical escapade, so gentle a storm, while
feeling uneasy…as time beckons, those bleeding dots, while fury lurches into
madness: that cadence as drums; that crypt evacuated; our surgeries mending our
tuxedos: if but to perish, this colorful cadenza, that mystical aria—as born to
breathe, so heavy at shirts, our tenets clashing with societies…as grace tugs,
this beaming countenance, seeping into morbid psychologies: that beige moon;
those turquoise bells; that burgundy liquor—as died her soul, as lived his
mind, where two merged as becoming oblivious: this song he won; this art she
craves; those pelicans feeding on patios. It comes to mercy; our children
smiling; our souls demented—as cursed forever, attracted to lights, cloaked in
oaks by poetries). I resisted a feeling,
fleeing for flying, at terrors that treacherous soul; as others suffer, while
shame stipples, to know we never met her: that driving force; as born to
ethics; while refusing to trespass a tender heart: that crimson towel, as grips
our brains, filled with furious fires: that patient love; that temper modified;
those wings breeding wings; instead, to deaths, this innocent ignorance, while
abusing passions. I would to laugh, as immature dearly, while flooded with
melancholy: that deep scar, while supported dearly, where minds agree with
treachery; but love is gentle, an immoveable fortune this photic, feral
imagination; where serenity dwells, a bit temperamental, so ravished by trust:
if but to land, that trauma to perish, that strumming that mourning
hummingbird: to fly afloat, that genius art, that fearless loyalty; where souls
flourish, that tender sorrow, agaze by such reach.
