Phantasmagoric Reality

To be without love, we must know love; and to know love,

We must be without love. My verdant grove, the waves

Are seldom, a crying rose. And vibration—a dying cloud,

A wilted love. But wretched thought, an attic sin, my

Fever phantom. Thus aflight, a fervent wave, a rising love.

My christic flame, a tulip died—a marvelous reappearance.

And much the weeds—to suffocate life—our fortress afar.

And much the blood, a symbol cross—a punctured

Parachute. But such miracle, a ghostly hand, my irritable

Queen. The waves—electric particles: thus, smile—my

Love. Else trickle a nightmare—devoid of aesthetic.

Such truth, a fleeting passion; and such truth, a graphic

Passion. Hence the paradox—a rave reality—for such—a

Phantasmagoria.