We
imbue justice, at rounds with demons, by texture a human Cross—as built in
dungeons, crying for suffering, at joys our teenage sutures; thus, to breathe,
this leafless tree, our rooms pegged with violence; as mother died, as father
lived, our grandparents to kilns: this fatal breath, as kissed a jewel, so far
an enchanted fire; where courage fuses, those pagan eyes, a swan to stars abed;
this tyrant furry, as lived a sinner, our shrines pulsating sodium. We flourish
dying; we die resurrection; we float adjusted through memoirs: that terrific
chaos; our terrific portraits; our nights solid by confusions: if started his
brain, afflux that rant, affixed to diamond tombs; to picture autumn that
tented orange, somewhere our minds aloft a cliff. We cherish love, this trophy
by arts, as standards dictate composure; but what for death, those longing
arms, screeching for crying his return? It rents his soul that vicious
purgatory, abandoned by illusions; as forced reality, that sector at science,
while afar so near to courage: that screaming image, as cut to brains, while
reaching at lose those charms: if wouldness
to wings, as couldness to cries,
our arts by cuffs as keys to freedoms; this venture we fly, falling by Hildegard,
our spirits rapt’d in ecstasies—as but so tender, remembered in angst, our
psychs flitting to battles—as chaotic bliss, this confusion as order, our
treasures to lights an inner catapult; where truths rupture, into fine
particles, our puzzles suffering from atrophy—if died his soul, to live his
mind, we come to face our mirrors: that permanent change, as change by
permanence, if flew his heart to wars: so cried his life, that living snow, that
hectic churn those teeming walls—to crawl by grace, as rising by fires, that
tear your arc we love: if sold his soul, so young to contracts, as abandoned to
seeking refuge; that turn he shunned, as flung to futures, at peace that mystic
fury. It came to arts his soul by frictions, fingering a vest of draperies—as
tightened his rope, that tapestry of sins, flinging for flying into madness;
that daunting miracle, as cursed a venture, to see it as sages—to flee by
caves, as crazed by berries, as wrung as shamans; where aunties flurry, at pleats
to souls, as rapt’d in hellish torrents—this mirth as sorrow, this sorrow as
mirth, our deepest injuries.
—I’m
ever a sign, forged by tendons, at mercies a mere skeleton.
—Naive
