It's
improper to lie, so said a liar, so explored by oxymorons: sublime ions,
electric connectedness, our minds as architects: your soul exhumed, your art so
precious, your dreams shared with winds: a young sparrow, a fragile hair, a
spoken fierceness: so shy those moments, so absolutely unconventional, as given
this existence: beloved and singing, whistling through flutes, imagined as
blueberry pies: raspberry ink, or dyer jackets, while so embarrassed: but
mother is magnet, so close to firmness, where lies are discerned: to flee
magic, to embrace sutras, at deep wells spelling our insistence: a jasmine
diamond, a loquat inheritance, running through ivory fields: those flowers,
Love, the ones we blow, where each little fairy floats in furies: our responsibility,
to know exact names, where music hits and souls chance: such furious
alligators, or a furious panther, our rites, our screams, our determination: so
frightened to succeed, so culpable for failures, so existent, so reframed: to
possess our parts, to meld gently, or to walk a perfumed orchard: our gray
plums, our pomegranate eyes, so estranged from irregular feelings: those normal
eyes, that normal perception, those normal emotions: while flying family,
looking at grandpa, so accustomed to reeling skies: (a young actor, a talking
booklet, so salty and dizzy from whirling: an artist whisper, climbing Mount Temperaments,
so filtered, so regular, so embarrassed: our bashful sentiments, and what for
those thoughts, our signature monsters: such breathless beauty, such countless
opportunities, so endless, so calculated, so deliberate): numbers to napkins,
fairer activities, while slightly apprehensive: at thoughts about chapels, but
I encourage reading, while selection becomes a riddle: this slot in souls, this
inverted sky-sin, while dreaming about becoming scholars: at tropic
mesmerization, at chiseled clarity, where we feel disconnected: our rumored
fevers, our remote agendas, so sacral, so Buddhist, and such fire.
I
owe you dreams, for this intense feeling, akin to mystical chalk: a surrounded
aura, a glowing texture, or deep interior tsunamis: wizard brains, wiccan
screams, so destined to create our lives: searching for clarity, this painful
heist, while held so close to ransom: alchemic skies, augury messages, while
conjuring ghosts: your incredible capacity, your beliefs shedding rain, or
clouds pausing in your honor: so pushed by valleys, our cultic landscape, where
esoteria is sprinkling our nightmares: too dear to perish, at least this river,
at blue black burgundy moons: a swanic rune, a swanic tune, such patience,
love, and gloom: a silent spell, a wellic star, while angels feast at your
words: turquoise arts, cyan arcs, while pleading that you stay awake: truth as
sureness, this delicate adventure, to become too certain through
disappointments: dreamy feelings, our first mistakes, where an absent voice is
crucified: billows raving, jutted cliffs, our eyes sensed in majesty: fairytale
emotion, or a bigger delight, to become every imagination.
…something
so close, to give so much, while becoming so indebted: those spritely eyes,
those enthusiastic palms, to have so dear a mission: our soul-quake pianos, our
undone legacy, or our unsung dynasty: to need inheritance, if but for identity,
while something seems appropriate: if but this truth, or but that truth, or
better, if but father acquiesce, take full responsibility, despite his internal
breath: so destined to crawl, so determined to accept his part, but something
is odd about faultless participation: speaking to engagement, where antagonism
is prevalent, and indiscretion is universal: those fairer dreams, where life is
angelic—and bluebirds are chiming amongst gorillas: such acceptance, while some
are perfect, but no one is paying attention: this hard curse, this edgy
reality, while young and moving through galaxies: so much above that, and so
much adverse to that, while life is typing into our brains….
