Was it only skies, a tethered charm, a heart in
shackles? Is uttering love enough? I was smitten like Shakespeare,
reckless like Camus, sentimental like Kierkegaard. The deep bassline, the
rising arts, renaissance and pains—the face knows it hurts. Raindrops into
hells, dungeons made artificial, beauty defusing its effects—like a dream we
had—so simultaneous, in dear sweat, to awaken to mystery: another knows the
science to what we experience. Grappling. Groping walls. Looking at Isaiah. Is
uttering love enough? We heard tales—about miracles, we would wonder, if
then, then now; we learned apologetics, we clipped petals, pruned excuses,
wandered around words made solid in love. An arrow—as read—it denotes
perception; bestial rites, attitudes in flame, relapsing was part of the
feeling, right into arms, rolling in mud, no one quite fathoms defeat.
