Such is Poesy

What the madness, my love? I’m nearly dead, alive a phantasm.

So much to reckon, a field of fire; and naked love, a holy chant.

Such vibration, a church of flames—my tragic love; and such

Inflation, a priceless dove. Dress the mystic, my fiercely art:

Inflame the majesty. Indeed, cry—my nightly ghosts: indeed,

Live, my cryptic pulse. I pause, an empty cask, and die, an

Evening prayer. Imagine such circumstance: a triple beat—my

Terrace light; and vision a faceless God—a brilliant smile.

Indeed, the fire, a spirit lance; and soon the heart, a burning

Storm. Awake composure, my deprivation; and daily death, a

Consecration. My canvas star, alert redemption—pardon love.

And so much to reckon, a cultic peace—a tender grief. For

Fiercely art, beckons blue—a sunlit phantasmagoria. And such

Love, a pyrrhic state, for such is poesy.