By
fire’s eyes, those hazel diamonds, those folklore brains—while channeled
forever, those restless dreams, severed as destroyed that gothic grin; to
return a vision, afloat by half a body, infuriating souls. It dies in textures,
to arise by colors, that opaque reality; as chanced his earths, accursed by
genetics, as blessed by curses—to infuse monsters, furry for tortures those
acorn ghosts, at stages running from owls: while howled a dream; that woman
they sought; such terrors by nights spurning mirrors: this cadence by darkness,
inverted as lights, spinning through familiarities: that pitted cry; those
furnace caves; that type of wouldness while
dancing. We could to fly, ignoring such
hells, whereto, tiptoeing our existential(s); as arising is natural, while
falling is grace, that visage aloft a crane our forests—while gripping soil,
flailing such articles, torn asunder our garments: that gothic music, those
sudden trumpets, our horns screaming convictions: if told that life, our
running children, accustomed to something appalling: that bleeding stature;
that picturesque horror; those neglected travesties; as standing acapella, that
quartet of ghosts, at circles to feel his mind: that
traffic of literature; that shorn belief; that endless vestibule. By beauty
such deaths, our cymbals raging, our souls expanding; to witness fragility, as
strength by ancients, this woman a shovel to souls; as cried our comforts,
writhing by satin, our tunics flooding rivers; while chased a dream, whereat, a
story, racing for fleeing as touched her eyes; that fallen tear, those acidic
wings, our purpose at love a musical: those gray minutes; that perfect pitch;
that inner soprano: if mere to bodies, that void as feelings, while such a
disappointment; so more to dying, if but to touch, our agonies at mountain’s
peak. We couldn’t see, our mirror’s valley, or that wailing sylvan, as
portrayed in horror’s operas: that breathing aria; that writhing cadenza; our
terrors pictured as perfection—while lived his mind, too low for canyons,
appalled by nature those comforts; to come to voices, as parted insanity,
whereto, our gardens carry an echo: those audible petals; that leaf by grimace;
our rains upon a tear.
