We
were zealous, to wrestle truth, to whittle a passage. We died so often, pulling
at bars, whet for passions; and thoughts for whelming, to stir for turmoil,
tussling for sunlight. The truth was vivid, a sudden thought, to see as
Socrates. The weal’s alive, a stunted
vox, an ancient vizard.
I
drift.
Something
has died, that something may live, an old motif. The wheels are shattered; the
tires made brick; and still for rolling. Its psychedelic, to out sail life, a
bit for delusion; and let it be said, “The city is splinters, and pints of
liquor.” I’m more for knowing, to lose for friends, a bit impatient; but only
this kind, for blocks of ignorance, and only this grain, to be abused.
There’s
tons of guilt, coupled with grief, a melancholic Adele; or rather for
heartache, to bleed a vessel, as distraught as Russia; and such for pretty, the
sorrows of prose, listening to Weeknd. The art is passion, to die through
winter, a turn hypnotic; whereas a future, dripping in joys—the very essence.
We sit abed, piecing puzzles, as alert as illusions; for no one spoke, and no
one heard, the songs of the wilderness; where essence dies, for something born,
to usher a new creed.
I
love it so far, to reread the lines, flowing through music; and more these
cries, to perish this heart, the woes of Sufis’; where Hindus wail, a city of
songbirds, popping psychotropics. I’m there a verse, and getting closer, to
finally say it; whereas it was, in which to die, whereat to flourish. Its
silent arts, for wreckage and skies, to sigh the goodbyes; for life is hectic,
to keep for order, to appease a blank room; and something for challenge, an
inner woe, a law against mind; for the brighter the smile, the spinning within,
to kill us softly. I thought it for war, something religious, for something
eternal; and oh the ache, a face for fates, to straightway perish.
