May I Ponder

I felt music, if must I speak, at membrance those sandy eyes; that sable contour, that able mind, those terrifying secrets; to leap from heights, at wings a warrior, a son by measures: our melancholia; our losing of self; sipping from soil our roots. I felt dungeons, while slamming doors, at tears our psychoses: that wretched credenza; our achy strings; that flute by treasured sorrow; where monsters bathe, as crazed with armor, seeping into membranes: our beloved armoires; our memoirs dripping fluids; those days at paradise—as maladaptive, that tender abandonment, our children playing hopscotch: that soft melody; those Cajun eyes; that innocence—as treasured curtly, while envied dearly, at measures to uproot those webs: this existential, as chiseled by life, while adrift this current of love-ships. If must I speak, that cocaine trail, our mothers to terrors—as roaming castles, at love by vagrancies, used as tossed asunder—that spread of armor, those jetted emotions, that tragedy by tales; to enforce life, that wretched outlook, while some type of person; as cursed a vessel, if must I speak, that child featured as father: this travesty, as wanting a lost daughter, as failed its full term: that resting embryo, as soothing that cry, a kick near infinity: our family’s reign, as dead to silence, a living room of secrets: that subtle air, as confused by rifts, a fool smiling at disdain. Oh to cry, peering at insanity, while used for some type of purpose: that infrequent grin; that deep rupture; this irony singing by cliffs; while ignored richly, for some type of feeling, while eagles tug at sensory. If must I speak, those sable eyes, that strength surpassing cadence—as torn a soul, afflexed with addictions, at ruins this gray horizon; as broken a seed, to feel such measures, at terrors to have destroyed life. I want to see mother, that childhood queen, that immutable beauty—as tragic scales, that whispering imbalance, as coldness thrills melancholia: that rabid thrill; that seeing through persons; that knowing of self; while afraid of life, our terms unique, where others are accustomed to rules: that jagged courage, to defend a child, while at hells to defend self: this need for ruins, as feeling familiar, unaccustomed to gentleness; that idle pleasure, to run by deserts, those late nights aside cognac. If must I speak, this day of ambitions, our cyan stars—as flowers to memories, where tables are plush, our souls speaking freely—while at patience a charm, where at arms a friend, about which, those trailing conditions—to ask for normal, searching for rubrics, by attentions that matriarch. If must I speak, our mornings to absence, our gates by locks of horrors; but torn a style, as normal a cry, to feel something’s askew: that inner jukebox, that jazzy dance, that jutted fever; as living immortalis, at such seconds as eternal, while mourning those long goodbyes; wherewith, are tears, that sitting space, that colored discourse; as singing wisdom, this life of bone-aches, that shiver by hearts; to explain silence, that essence of scripture, to monitor by cadence such stillness; as losing self, while deep at joys, this mixture of misdirection; where psychs ponder, as jotting notes, while patients leave afforded to live with self: that trying current, to paddle at angles, sensing a great white. If must I speak, this lovely legacy, as confused with proprieties: that standing meanness, unless for charms, at tales reaching for emotions: that cry that sings, that whiff of manipulation, that person with appeal. If must I speak, this inner longing, to touch by essence a tender affection; as sung our Tao, our verbal Taekwondo, our electric Tai Chi: that outer samurai; that inner ventriloquist; that mental psychologist—to have such wisdom, an emotional younger, stranded at that first cookie. If must I speak, that feral dream, as accused of disharmony; where perfect judges, as releasing lives, while distorted that chiseled reflection; by which, are measures, to alienate life, where mothers ponder dissonance. I’ll claim this light, affected with love, where others wonder of truths: this deep contention, to wrestle with proprieties, while webbed to something tender.