Collect
us, Lord—this gift we sin, stumbling through glory; that perfect aria, adrift a
cadenza, by shards a morbid shadow. Forgive this life, by fevers a catastrophe,
or more this mystic will; that jagged
paradox, so embedded in sorrows, so infused by miseries; where men perish, that
innate feeling, with much attachment to melancholia: that fuse flickering; that
wick churning; those pictures with illness—as splattered supposedly, this
forming of images, our perfect interpreters. It becomes obvious, that series of
plights, at tears, pointing out this disconnection. I pray for Love, our songs
by vineyards, made to feel inadequate: this terrible chaos, as fused a dream,
while power imposes its nectar. We came for death, this fantastic war, as
casualties resurrected: those lithic tablets; that deep confusion; where death
gave up its ghosts: that swift return; this sharing affections; that faint
disdain. I perish turquoise eyes—our mental captions, to know by Love, it
wasn’t enough; where angels wrangle, as fallen voices, this mating of fairest
dreams; as captured humanities, afield at stresses, while pictured by kindness.
I forgot self, lost in plural moments, this feature of interpretations; as born
to joys, this feather of daughters, to give by credits a silent gesture: where
perfidious becomes normal; while quickened to perform; at membrance, that
shocking smile. I’ll crave forever, as to stumble upon closure, while to reopen
those mystic wounds; for this is life, attempting something spectacular, while
moving from closure to a new obsession. Oh for honesty, this changing of hats,
this Woman’s Work; where visions are
sorted, rummaging burgundy eyes, while dying a bit by torments: our patient
mothers; our forceful fathers; abandoned to dichotomies; albeit, falsely, this
breath of reasoning, accused of playing this maverick. We’re blessed for life,
as cursed for breathing, lost in this religious sphere; that need to worship,
as filtered by dissentions, at wars on behalf of something immortal; that wretched feeling, as sighted alone, by force this
affection to subdue. Oh for Love, this singing confession, while at tears for
Love: this ocean wailing; our islands nudging; this need for one voice. I’m
deep at perils, plagued by thoughts, at contentions with souls; that fabulous
cave, as driven a sky-fire, whiles afloat a mind-wave; where hearts are stiff,
this portrait of restraints, at woes, for worlds are dangling by wires. I met
psychoses, seated at sessions—this immutable strength. I approached caution,
without a blink of doves; where aches were nigh to crumble. We silenced music,
as mother appeared, this person knowing by sights. I see it as colors; this
forming of dreams; this catcher of souls; whereby, were deaths, as infused
disappearance, while memories seeped into biochemicals: our fantastic screams;
our fatal philosophies; as informed of solid dysfunctions; where parts fail to
fit, this praise of theories, while something crucial is adverse: that song as
sung; those souls afforded sanctions; that sullenness atop sacredness—as pure
confusion, stringing theorems, charged by a series of glimpses; this chase of
souls, while to grimace at resistance, for “It must be true”: this thin
papyrus; our most tremendous thoughts; our deductions paved in iron; as
returned a feeling, this love for Love, as pushing through revelation. We come
to closure, while losing so much, at hearts this courage to function; as death
is rebirth; while rebirth is life; where life is fury.
