Love Arcs (Swan Kiss)

I feel fire, those Asian cries, at remorse this leftist matrimony: our beloved swan, at Cajun heights, spinning for bawling such platinum; to arise at dawn, searching threads, to witness uncanny effects: that lost culture, our vultures to stars, that dreamcast adventure—where love peaks, as surrounded in sulfur, where adults fever as insane creatures; but, nevertheless, to lose his sights, while buried in justice, where penalties became arbitrary.     I prune roses, tasting for falling, at rivers by trance: those locks abrasive, that song contagious, our rapture lived as spacial; at tears to feel, while roaming emotions, a bit too delighted—that magic war, inclusive by mystic fire, rifting tulips and freezing crosses—that music, Love, as turning cheeks, as one utters, I’m barely human—if time to brains, sipping cranberries, to excavate our bladders—that place in life, those ruby eyes, those legs to run while escaping but seconds; indeed, to flit, in order to fly, our controversy by air-cranes—where souls are rabid, fleeing for captured, our years to memories. [I face dilemmas     addicted to feelings     a tad bit to wildness: this delicate flower, our intrepid fantasies, where one is held by gestures; to frantic a heart, this rumble of forces, while to ponder your courage; this space in mountains, as gods resurrect, that gripping of transmigration—as loved a feeling, to kill reality, where fuses appear; but all to glory, this magnificent gem, affected those eyes at birth; indeed to panic, as given but a second, cleaving to idyllic infinity.     I must adjust, for life is moments, insomuch, as time is seconds—or tears to atoms, that integral sensation, to have our aches by seasons; where granny laughs, as effected with wisdom, as, nonetheless, we shiver and tumble into soil; this lot of lives, as saturated with salt, but threshed by river-falls—where plums form voices, and sky-falls visit, that moment to hear silence].     We sense sincerity, this rare sentiment, as stationed in Legos—that old self, to see it in siblings, as more to realize this cycle: that deep cut, as featured in similes, those sensational sickles; as carved in woodblock, or fretted in metal shops, while ceramics scream by fragility—indeed, a cross, this pollination, where a thought lingers for decades: that arc of passions, so simple an address, if but to feel that one flicker.     It comes this light, seated at turquoise emotions, at ballet an inner violin; therewith, are faces, this butterfly chasing, that ladybug watching; to have a heart, where love is free, as opposed to shackling souls; but more to power, this intoxicating force, while capture resides in mutual seclusion; herewith, my Love, a shadow to harvest, at lights to fly, swimming for stardom that foreign land.