Greetings,
my Love—this terrified structure, while ignoring input; that frantic scar, so
close to danger, where a swan yells to father: if but destruction, as bred
indelicacies, yearning for falling while leaning to crawl. I saw legs, darting
for spiders, to witness grandmother’s endeavors; that fabulous cry, as magnet
deaths, so encouraged to play a father: our cryptic tiles; those mischief
roaches; our days to arms while wide asleep: if but to journey, as mystic
friends, to ask a newborn of where she’s been. I know by hearts, this feeling
extinct, as coming in droves—that achy instinct, as doubts by family, to wonder
of individualism; or tiers to life, while spacey a claim, at territories within:
that far voyage, as acclaims would gather, if but to alive a volt; that sudden
archive, at treasures for histories, our islands nigh Patmos. I love those
eyes; those mischief eyes; as seated in villages; to become a cygnet, as
infused by grace, too cold to fall for nonsense. Its total indignance, or
morbid evaluations, to come to illegal analyses; that place in minds, as
effused by powers, to sudden realization our tiles are blotched; where mother
cries, as fathers disperse, for mother rants for raging by curse; this livid
light, as tortured chains, by angst a flame of brains; where daughters
flourish, awake a star, peering into human activities.
I got it early, this curse of
words, as accompanied with textures; that vivid dream, as seeking bestial, this
monster outwitting leviathan: if but to panic, for days are crucial, a group
nameless seeking his passage: that tale of thieves, as achieved his witness, at
tears that fatal visitation; where daughters heave, as deeply asthmatic, while
mothers attempt to curtail truths; that friend dying, this cancer of life,
while a cygnet bestows blessings; this fevered art, as acclaimed a star, while
humble that rose dripping fragments; our lives in cloves, that trefoil
mentality, as seeing with clarity—that old foe, as now a friend, by chance to
believe God’s work; as inner terror, to flex with humans, while infused by
Mozart: this achy chorus that deep liturgy, those cries to arts our theories. I ache a curse, so enforced a scream,
creeping through tunnels at three a.m.: our torrid love, that vapid feeling, as
torn to emote a capital emotion—where mother appears, that torn introject, as
saying to self, “It’s God’s method.”
We
prayed a swan, as more to understanding,
while gravid an electric churn: those beige eyes, afforded a chorus, at
reach those elongated limbs; to harvest feelings, while seeking love, a bit to
course a deadly infraction; as claiming riches, those rivers to brains, while
peering into that gloomy forest; to awaken cherubs, or garner angels, that
seraphim by coals; to scream by wisdom, as knowing life, to realize something
unique to humans: those horrid tales, as infused by demons, as leering at
abrasive eyes; where shelter fades, as knowledge soars, to find this comfort
with gaining information: that attic heart, as clad in skies, to reach for
something concrete. We adorn our swan, at wakes to protect ourselves, while one
perishes a scar; but this is life, this furious love, while one rests upon
self-imageries.
