We
suffer kindness, by something profound, held hostage a gentle touch; as much to
cherish, this welkin storm-wall, abandoned to vestibules; at currents to
perish, alive, but a scar; this epic belief, as one invades sanctums, a pair
seated by names; to know for cultic, this likely priestess, as cryptic as
silence. I see us there, such fire leaping—our receptive hearts; thereto, as
cagey, as circled afar, so close to touch by treacheries: this Agnes Obel, that
inner Theresa, this medieval mastermind: aloft with lyrics, those memoires
bleeding, that mind mulcted and flaming: that lotic trespass, while seated at
converse, another to have rained gods—that goddess soul, accursed by breath, as
blessed to witness—that centered knowingness, that sheep-circumference, this
language he barely spoke—as torn asunder, pitted by hellish joys, awake to
demons—that spiritual semen, seeping into agonies, while afforded this hunt for
soaring: that woman dying, as daily to change, this range of vicissitudes: that
sagic interior; as a brain studied; to secrets meshed by insanity—as fully
sane, from chi to spirit, from skies to hells: that one woman, leaping by
vengeance, our bones excavated; or that one soul, as intrusive as pregnancy, a
legion at our synaptic gaps: to incur a riddle; by measures of mirrors; our
synthetics become supernatural: if felt to souls, this feyic infusion, where
seconds shift an inexplicit phenomenon: that waiting volt; that push by
shoulders; or less to fathom that private fire; as running with ghosts, while
speaking with phantoms, our arts at brevity with intense darkness; that woman
crawling, by trek a sprinter, as royal as our gilt’d experience: that falling
of tongues, our faces aglow, as spirit sprinkles upon our countenances; or more
to scents, as a woman watches, to appear to spirit: those waking hours, flushed
with furnaces, our rooms haunted shrines; to remember this vessel, as alive a
Paradise, thriving for immortality; whereat, our slow decay, while enmeshed in
souls, racing through forests’ caves—that grave we died, as taught to return,
by consciousness a bit unconscious; this feral dream; our telic firebrand;
those eyes asking by clarity; as depended upon analyses, while reaching an
impasse, that confliction to want but a favored thought; where times are
grievous, much grander than self, a touch so mystic; and, thus, they appear,
those invective introjects, as abused by her treasures: that cryptic light, as
baptized in Hebrew, afloat a sentence with Mechtild; or streaming with
Gertrude, a ninja to his mind, thrumming through Clairvaux; that itch to soar,
sanctioned by trespasses, traipsing through pleated bibles; that biblic edge,
at tears for Tamar, at wars for visitations: that instant fire; afforded to
know silence; where arts are promiscuous with science; that deep adultery, as
given to torches, by waves a pair of gloomy experts; as far-reaching, our minds
aflame, this curse as quasi-esoteric; to float by grace, at faces unspoken, to
know by given fires; that hectic feeling, fleeing capture, seasoned by
alternatives; to ask it Life, this deep applaud, at woes with fens.
