celebratory souls, concerto discoveries, a spirit will
sensationalize greatness. art made of ghosts, phoenix soaring, sun-balanced
energies. by a man’s crux, in desire of a creature, he must sail by seven seas—body
made tired, patience warn through thread, satin hope, carnal paganism. certain
downwardness, timbre in heaven, ethereal palaces—whittling cottonwood, her face
appears, a thousand degrees into majesty. no gray humor, of humble insanity, of
passion borne of souls. taupe eyes. cirrus smiles. to have noticed each other,
some passing with time, to ask for a soul, its cards, its miracles, soot, and
damages.
overborne into delicate-robust tears—
a dear charming elixir made by law.
if days are warmth most tamed fears—
overborne into delicate-robust tears—
a soul scorned for habit of years—
flailed asunder left torn left raw.
overborne into delicate-robust tears—
a dear charming elixir made by law.
of sober seas, an albatross at hand, shooing and
shushing, most alarmed a pianist is flying. a mere amateur, some gift if known,
to see with eyes pure of being—lacking impurity, of rare motive, by pouch of
dusts—to sprinkle upon high, to wage war on selfishness, to need what sustains
art—
a most unhappy bliss, a mouthless kiss, to have spirit
in soul, to have harmony riven in twain, to want and need with venom dripping
into invisibility.
