Such
majesty that love, through deserts convicted, by terrors a shadow: to come by
deaths, tiptoeing by orchestras, as scraping but surfaces: at infant hearts,
such magic by winds, accustomed to silence: that moody growl; that howling
voice, our sky-domes as soulquakes…while ever abandoned, this law as carried, a
void within a vortex; wherewith, a palm, that curious squirrel, but an entity
by brains: those fallen symbols, that sheet of music, those dreams screaming
for salvation; as aching arcs, at madness by cadence, floating in but out of
reality; as shifting through spaces, a snail as confidant, a caterpillar as
wings. We tore a vision; so many years at practice; our praxis by grace a
terrible blessing; as shot our souls, that pistol as liquids, those vines as
harbingers; while tugging at serums, that inner affinity, as palmed in psalms a
sinner at liturgies: those warm baths; that cold exosphere; such churning
admiration; where souls perish, at horrors that intervention, standing by
umbrella a scar or more a theme, at science our graces, by treasures a
contradiction or arts as parodies, extended by sorrows, fleeing as reaching
purgatory; that beige lava, by inner strata, such leverage as out-sung an
omen—at voice a phantom, abased as plagued our opera, as overseers contend for
powers. We topple by fires, while stretching our eyes, a bit so familiar; as
artful wings, by rapture to mercies, afflux an atmosphere: our grieving
garrets; our floret frenzies; our nerves as fevers astray—while failing graces,
our nectars so vile, at taunts by mirrors while heaving: if sought a soul,
those tiny fingers, as laced by eternity; that vigil magpie, distorted in
motion, that mayfly bathing—at pirate status, so chiseled with times, as grime
to souls affixed—where potion stirs, by flames those keys, such eyes unlocking
dungeons; as sewn a torment, such beauty at hells—that humid mire…where curses
knit, that inner symposium, that mental symphony—while at stars a fugue or
terrors that inner harmony, as attempting to harvest madness: those late
excursions, as feigning with humans, this measure by wills those cries…to mischief souls, as sung a dove—those purple whys.
Oh
for spells, screaming at sorrows, at pace, this deep loneness or more infusion,
by vigorous dreams, seated ere an audience…those perfect pitches, as haunted a
home, leering at windowsills—that oaken tree, that outer synchronism, that trenchant
exorcism—as mothers fly, by fathers’ stars, that jaunt through mirrors—as
sensed a monster, while pleading for mercies, at terrors those singing
whispers: that shadow of fires, that pyre of bones, this incarnated feeling; as
effacing time, while outrunning clocks—that pendulum ticking…those edited
footprints, as laundered his soulprints, sitting atop roofs plucking leaves: that
dreary moon; that vocal silver; our ivy by chains our knells: if lived to
chaos, those seconds adored, a corset as royal.
