We
adjust, Love—forever at forever, explosive
at velvet stars; as rapid lexicons, or morbid gems, at love by sights.
(Communion is similar to chemistry; albeit, there are several textures: it
becomes imperative to utilize discernment). I know your heart, as first to know
his own, swimming through murky humans; to see our mirrors, to examine our
arcs, while strangers to our auras: our scudding senses; our flitting frenzies;
those few we can’t ignore: where temptation scorns, while galaxies swarm, our
silence disrupting our cravings. We treasure friendship, not merely for
security, but more for this therapeutic pressure: that jibing and jabbing; that
trenchant confidant; those hours to turquoise sensations. (Mothers adore
us—while lost in innocence, as realizing a series of dislikes; as, nonetheless,
at measures to protect, while falling into shadows: our bleak realities; our
shifty moods; that Promise of milk and honey). We examine fire, as realizing ourselves, at
wonders when something is eating away: that horrid disposition; that churning
contemplation; our waiting through this throttle of affections: befriending
pillows; disgusted with reading; too involved for prayer; indeed, a country by
feelings, by living emotions, too concerned for healing: that inner montage;
that pillage of darkness; that sudden elation! (I know your heart, this
threshing for perfections, that self-conscious conscienceness—leering into
adulthood, a bit abrasive while learning, at wonders when clamps seep into
silence; this music of arcs, while seated at treasures, a bit too distant from
reality; as projecting portraits, those rabid ideals, while much to living,
admired. I hear your brains, as first to hear his own, trekking forever to
reach his childhood: those jazzy oldies; that sip of beer; our mothers alive by
personality: if but to grasp motion, while sectioned by joys, our mornings a
bit to recouping). Life is measurements, this wrestling of helms, as
participating in those rhythms that ache our souls; as much to grains, to
nurture our harvest, at once, to exclaim, “It’s ripe”: this fortune of minds,
to love by rapture, while resisting such copious feelings; our flitting souls,
so cold but warm, adjudging new things based upon past experience: ourselves as
home-plate; our pains as reservoirs; our fears as signposts. (I love a dream,
to have held a dream, as stitching dreams).
