Fountain of Deserts

We’ve become rumors, our patient arcs, stressed for winds; or more impatient, that search for deference, as never it came; this wilderness fire, our tents splayed, our logs with palmerworms; while time mocks, this instrument of chaos, our joys fabricated. It becomes rain, this welkin hell, this hellish heaven; to lie so boldly, as cold as glaciers, while seeking authenticity: our bleeding arcs; our cadence at war; that anger confounding justice.  I saw as sighted, this strange behavior, this coy by deception—to ruin his heart, this glee for wrongdoing, this angle that smiled; as more a soul, at love for humans, as dependent there for comforts: that tragic star, by deserts that dirge, at aches to avoid healing: as more to shifting, our weekly rebounds, as honest as a pitted serpent. We run risks, offending beauty—those beige eyes—as sore to pains, pleading acceptance—examined from such a distance; to cringe our mantle, at converse with spirits, while mirrors mourn our legacy; to churn so gently, our shoulders crying, at madness this whiff of tragedy.  I shift to silence, this treasure of rainbows, in which, but visions our passion; to crave remorse, as rooted in heinous words, while such cut through bone to marrow. We live this way, our contradictions, this clash of realities—seeking musicality, adrift a blue bar, staring at candent iron; this winded soul, at tears forever, this inner Ein Gedi—as such to gorgeous, plighted as currents, our travesties singing opera: if but our woes, painted as murals, our faces screaming at silence: if but that journey, weathered by actions, addressed by terrors our waterfalls.  I lamented love—that moment as bodies—that second as intense; to cry that lightning, as once consumed, while sunk in secrets; to nurture sorrow, as time and again, trekking through shrubberies—to feel such glory, embedded in chaos, while flitting our mystic horror: if days are healing, this ache of treasures, as forging such miracles!  We sail majestic, this dearth of purities, as one guilty by mirrors; to scream, mesto, pictured as beautiful, where miseries become outspoken: if but our souls, in accord with paradise—our hearts struggling with darkness: that kiss of dynasties, that fever of kingdoms, this appeal by stature; to live such love, as frightened such love, while treading this mid-ocean ridge; as such to sulfur, this channeled agony—those peppered ways.