We
reason through legends, to gather for reason—our prowess in a kettle. I found for reason—her soul, frantic over
reason. The years enfold, to feature
legends, living through our reason.
I
so much this feeling, for often this feeling, a need to rev a psyche; for soul
is willing this feeling, a picture in a kettle; wherefore are images, to grow
for limbs, to walk forth. Weren’t we
in a kettle, tucked in an attic, befriending mice? It’s merely pictures, even a mirage, to
suggest for pain tucked away; and to this end—was I born, for freedom barred in
aluminum.
There’s for miles between us, and merely
miles, and never our Mass—and never our dreams; but there’s for mining, sorting
through soot, as severe as blackdamp.
How long such as death; to sickle imagination, to count the
branches? They gave yarn to a kitten;
where said kitten—was occupied for a time; but pondered the kitten, a box
outside, and so went the yarn. We search
this box, to search this feeling, as curious as kittens—yearning to go
outside. Is it our nature; forever
looking through windows; warm for a summer breeze?
There’s an engine revving his heart; and
there’s friction revving his soul—to give for buoyancy; there’s impending
waves, pressing pressure privately—for whom to feel—ever this feeling; where
bars fashion dungeons—ever to break free—where moments torture peace—and
dungeons breed—featured in bars;
but the sun rises, to settle upon vision,
to devastate perception; where evergreen is lived, and poems are sung, for
brilliance—this feeling; where the goddess breathes, to fashion life, as beige
as integrals; in which for passions, this in-between, this fervent feeling; for
the goddess lives, semi-inflated, and quasi this feeling; where wealth is flux,
a touch of grim, to seize the moment.
