I account
dreams, loosened by turmoil, aback and leveled so crazed but uncanny; this split
fusion those roses with petals or this gorgeous and untouchable vase; so
abandoned to thistles so confused by skies at something terribly perfect; our
families dying this pain seeping as remembering our blatant agonies; to adore
this principle, so tragic this light, as struck with fire losing so tremendously;
if but our accounts, freely feeling, accused of acrimonies; our bodies
screaming our fields flooded this teal bloody endeavor; where a psych was
feelings as to become techniques while cursed for ruined sensing a kindred
friend; this hell with wings this grave with sediments or this ocean so robust
with emotions; to look at you where something is so steep while we behave
according to fireworks; this sipping belly this gut fury while we die agaze’d
with flurries; if but to live, Precious, if but to die, Mystics, if but to
resurrect, Yogis—this main life, this framed curse, as boulders shatter in
springs of poison; but mother is florid and mother is a thought and mother is
rude; this cruelty some die this film God records those lies I must adore; those
family trees those red begonias so aloof to something dissonant his brains;
this tragic Christ those tragic gores at wars and strife looking to baptize
troubles; but love is gray so death becomes us and lightning has struck
followed by thunder; to adore as unseen or to love as internet beauty while
behaviors forewarn and deliver anguish; our rooted concerns our burning urns as
eating bone and ash and marrow; so deep in us while so afraid for us where it
seems a light deal; our voice and dungeon our fairer fights where something
veers according to decisions; as but your mission to extract something keen but
dear to God I can’t become a number; this furious fever our gigantic glaciers
so accursed so eliminated—such fiery dislocation. (Those endless groans those
virile grunts as gangly confused casualties; so high-low so clear-murky at
treacherous honest religiosity; our minds kilt with passion our greed for Love
and tragic if but to envelope as mailed to hells; so for this death to come to
credits as creatures reckless and accused; to stand with chaos to live like
irrational specimens where Love ached and broke excitements; our delirious
survival our eyes so tender to watch a woman crumble in travesty).
…so
established in Christ so enlove with Promise at pure white feathers; so grandiose
with it so lost in Xanadu with it or so Sheol this thunder in graphs; our remembered
hearts our treasured spirits where something cursed blesses in dynamic strutting(s);
as confused clear creatures, as babbling Babylon behaviors, at art and angle
and attributes; those times I sense you if but to feel fire in a thought while
it might well be another; or so at this thought conjuring up this regret where
a psych has a certain fire; our loveless fathers our curious outspoken mothers
where granny needed one last cigar; so much remorse our days at hauntings or so
close to exploding it felt good to meet a new poet; our bodies maneuvering our
souls filled with grace while I knew Love would never shift; but days were
rough and I needed one last avenue where abating must come with conquering;
those nights as creatures our daughters to magic as something needs to follow
this poem; so torn in beige so delighted in green where Love is pure travesties…!
I know
for you this tale as never sung and wolves are gnawing upon faith; but grace be
gentle this plight in agonies or feeling quite confused; to gripe forever this
beige collar where something is ever under those rugs; as purer inventions living
curious fevers so closed to something that sees us; this contradiction this
want for sight if but every glorious feature; as delivered reasons living out
deliberate impressions while our agony comes with sensing pure affection; if
but to exist if but to die where Love ached for our truest personas.
