In Praise of Energies

There’s richness to it, this sad perfection, fraught in intimacy; to touch your face, our voices cracking, our liquor spilling. I loved you rising; I held us falling; we arouse as beauty. It takes for dungeons, this inner praise, as giving glory—that mighty feature, that fallen tear, this treble heartbeat; to frown on life, this hectic force, while to find a rhythm: this mystic sorrow; as caressing palms; this latrine of dying worries. (Dear God: we die so often, spewing at phantoms, amazed by ghosts. I know a soul, as tears fall—to dig within; this marvelous woman, my tendentious slant, as finding power. Oh this love;—building a fortress, even our cross: to pick it up; to lay it down; to wipe our faces in agony). I met a soul, as more our equal, wrestling with phantoms; to cast a blessing, to see a smile—our walking into wilderness; this kiss of myrtle, those high grounds, growing in energy. I loved a story—as so fatidic—this journey of our hearts: to praise in anguish; as losing through gains; where all is magnificent; as such a sinner; to arise a theologian; or more a child of God. Oh for torments, those violent screeches, mother as a victim: arising forever, this place of hearts, this arc of passions; to see your face, as father’s neglected—(there’s a blessing in this room tonight): our crying souls; as fraught with victory; to speak it as a giant. Oh Lord—this inner pain, killing in parts, to seek light through praises—this place of faculties, to keep it secret, to want to speak—this inner legacy, to harness a breakthrough, to give it to Christ. It’s pushing forward, this thing of cultures—to call us emotional; but what for mystics, and what for yogis, and what for Europeans?—this thing of lanterns, this indelible fire, that space we met for hours. I needed to weep, this tree of wisdom, as more compounds an element: this type of furniture, this settee of arguments—(our universe attempting to define it); as finding segues, rooted in deer eyes, our daughters seeking direction. I speak to knowing, to realize love, this thankful soul—as walking our forests, a bone as a myth, a brain as a bit skeptic.         

It had to fly, this feeling of praise, where humans move fey—as favored by souls, speeding through space, seated in a loveseat; where love would swell, this tale of arts, that thunder to pains; while drumming hearts, this mind of souls, this system of inner amazements; to love a soul, as slanted with bias, to destroy it for nothing. It’s so cathartic, this fervid inquiry, peering at faces; that mystic dynasty, this inner castle, that edge by error a triumph.        

We Know this Feeling

I couldn’t capture it, this type of mood, as knitted in feelings; this circle of blandness, those inner observations, to want life unknowingly—as to live boldly, those seconds of activity, while to assert, “This is living”; that faucet of dreams, pouring into souls, while happiness must transform—whereat, are chases, as to outdo joys—as mischief madness; that elusive web, to find that one moment, as to chase it forever. We mold miracles, to sculpt experiences, peering at young eyes; this mystic glance, to know but futures, that moment in us their reality—as it comes with days, to appreciate subtleties, to avoid disasters. We know formulas, this pitted design, this volcano atop a conscious—to make a second, by which is joys, this type of manufacturing. We examine life, that inch in time, while warring against dullness—this fraction of persons, gilt in fancies—a simple cup of coffee—as feeling immortal, reading theosophies, bedded in images—this deep equation, as gazing at chaos, to knit some facet of order: that place in souls, groaning for permanence, or taken by heart such fleetingness. We shift with winds, that spectrum of feelings, as a mere gesture flurries a tear. I know not our weathers, traveling embedded islands, attempting to harness fictitious jewels; to find but one, while to revisit that space, cultured by elusiveness; where days are painted, this list of activities, to utter, “This life of woes.” I know not reality, as to know reality—this portrait permeated by paradox. I feel this moment, as something familiar, this sort of permanence—as not in cement, but in constant returns, forging some sort of chaos; as to speak to knowing—I know this feeling, as to abolish solipsism: this inhumanity, grounded in selfishness, as we live to know ourselves: those wild winds, peering at cherry oak, seated at something colorful: this wheel of natures, engrained in nature, to cherish another soul; for life is forged, a series of investments, compounded by kindness; this shift in turns, as created in knowledge, to have so much to give; this miracle love, a spectrum of seas, while affected by love; that wellic song, while brains would dance, this feeling by waves a fortress; to dine forever, cleaving to that good thing, where something manufactured becomes reality.   

Furniture Hearts

Beat into a rhythm, almighty heart—as captured in a sudden glance; that mirror of shames, as years divided, to remember we loved like rabbits—this furious soul, to brand a tuffet, at tears to realize our hatred; this fervid feeling, floored in pains, at fevers to extinguish darkness; this feral drum, this kettle of minds, this war we can’t see; to pay a friend, as to hassle souls, while said friend fell in-love. I’m more a soldier; your more a lover; at hearts we commit to deaths; this breath of swans, courted through niceness, where said niceness detracts from existence; as mothers battle, a fallen grandmother—so content with warring forever; that casual venom; those lemur eyes; that bone growing into hemispheres. I met an Asian, this glorious vulture, at tears to acknowledge those palms; where love was wanting, as to loathe this soul, while years would speak to admiration. I clawed a heart, this voice in cultures, where swans watch in amazement. I know a man, our daughter’s lenience, while broken in parts that earth. It took to madness, as seeping within, to court a grandmother; for more that son, adrift through trials, to realize this could be my son. I know a father, at schism this breath, alive that moment to hear truths. It’s life this shame, while pegging a young tent, as cordial as a madman’s dreams; for years would come, to ruin affections, while in secret a heart pines—for more than glory, but maybe friendship, to know, I killed a soul. I’m breaking cobwebs, peering at a vest, where all I need is this mystic; of course, to perish, for hearts are enchanted, with one loathing this soul. It takes for patience, to rev so high, a force by way of education; to pray this soul, as something forbidden, to extend beyond those silent meadows; where truths are fractured, for they lack a voice, where grandfather tears at a hidden motive; this snail of time, to piggyback affections, where chi forms a locomotive; at heart with Zen, at woes with Yogis, at tears to confess this Raja; for mines is Christ, leaning into silence, as to emote but a fraction this voice; this thing of lights, this inner pyramid, this fact that souls are ethnic; to ponder origins, this forbidden color, at wants to love but waning. I met a kindred, this inner credenza, to find for heart that memoir; this motion in arts, that mental impulse, this coach by words your ink; to fall forever, lingering in space, those airs to suggest that all is normal; where pain would dwell, as feelings failed, a man too slanted to breathe. I loved a snake, to find for purpose, where hell invited coyotes; as broken in time, this flaming Bush, a current too crooked to capture. It takes for swans, to lighten a heart, where perfection becomes a sudden moment; to chant aflame, as staring at cultures—this woman that must sing.

We’re Knitting Dreams

Maybe a few words, as spoken in silence—this heated room: that floor model furnace; those body sized mirrors; that empty blue bucket. I know not of seasons, while to know of seasons, as to ponder a name through smiles. They call us mad, a bit for jealous, for life is at motions—this train of scars, those platinum bars, that way with seeing madness; to appease a monster, while to lose a fragment, to know we wouldn’t survive—if not for hate, or rather anger—those precious amygdalas. I’ve pressured this soul, this mutual exchange, a bit lethargic—while sluggish as airs, a fire flickers—such mystic illusions. I thought to sip, this subtle war, as to pretend he will not sip. It’s quite a function, to see for issues, this weekly habit—as tinted in rubies, while to see this space, at woes to mention your name—where thoughts are ramped, as to silence with practice—those years our trenchant affections—to come with force, as spoken authority, to shift our atmosphere—this grandiose, to suffer stigmata, as worlds revolve around lies. I question fun-time, a bit restrained, as to avert that sudden shift; for humans are wild, looking upon dreams, as subject to apologize: “I meant it differently”; this tale of billions; to run a risk of not living at all. Its casual lectures, this taming of instincts—that want to ravish our souls; where tumors dwell, this canvas of thumbtacks, while ghosts rummage our courtyards. I feel a smile—this electric power, analyzing years of data; to chance upon clouds, that avid reader, punctured by this existential, or more equality, this fiction of times, running stark naked through hemispheres. We shift at turns, present to ourselves, as soulfelt as a second of clarity; to chant with swans, steady at stations, where love becomes actions; or to greet a mother, that bent for judgment—of course, all things but self; but what is life, that I would chase—the approval of one hiding from shadows; or what are functions, as near to submit, to the approvals of a lost soul. It seems so hectic—as racing through traffic, asearch for emblems and idyllic romance; this chase of passions, to outlive moments—a relic of iron our mishaps; to shift at turns, but a day alone, as now attached to something new. It darkens hearts, this energy waxing, to blame it on kismet: that fervid feeling; that dying soul; those ways as truths concerning character; but more to songs, seasoned with silence, as seated at those wings of hearts; where swans churn, peering at insanity, while forced to a tacit milieu—as affected by sights, this misuse of loopholes, as forbade from using such: this disenchantment; those partial ideals; as it’s meant for one, it’s not meant for all. I pray your soul, those coming years, as to voice our contradictions—to see with clarity, our human fallacies, while attempting to feel human: this casual scar; those frantic welts; those days at times climbing wire; where love is partial, as to ignore so much, as never to give a bit too heavy—this place in minds, as forced to silence, to wonder of pure affections: that distant art, as stippled through souls, to paint a perfect picture; but yours are thoughts—a drawer of confetti, peering at deer eyes—or more a lemur’s, as mythical as vampires—a drum as an earthquake—where parents are morbid, at times in error, a bit unconcerned with fallacies—this mystic art, this yogic brain, this place in pains our motors; to know for boundaries, pushing towards truths, while many would have you resting—where hells flourish, as shoulders drop, while eyes bulge with misery. I must retreat, if but to mention, this thing of beauties: that marvelous mind; those keen insights; that ability to compose with accuracy; to take it from mind, as to place it on paper, this feat by arts a miracle; so more this love, as chatted through wings, to awaken, pause, and there’s a volt.

Hi Love II

It’s a terrible song, as to hate mankind—and love Christ; this furious passion, as driven this soul, to peer at daughters; this lake of crimes, to feel that ache, as life would live that love. I’m seeing trees, as held accountable—this flagrant appeal; where hell is rubies, as mad is detriment, where patience scurries through deserts; this deranged man, to love a swan, to invest in a different persona; where love is gravy, while hate is torture, to realize that infant prophet. I want to heal, as one towards a nation, to realize those sacred scriptures; where mothers pant, as fathers scorn—a grandmother filled with tears. It couldn’t be life, as to forward affliction, this man as incarnated; to mold a swan, as mere this purpose, while friends condone travesty; to laugh through cries, while sighing deeply, where forever broke its nature. I could but cry, but what is this, a man struck by defeats; as pushing forward, to catch a fly, as to pluck a set a wings. We seem to perish, over hands our own, while pointing at casualties: “If but this thing, than I would love, but hell hast not fire like a woman scorned”; to seas this art, conversing Poseidon, where tears became oceans; but love is more, to see it up close, as opposed to seeing something crooked: this wealth of ifs, concerned with self, as strictly a measure for deciding futures. I must retreat—to speak of roses, this place in time a garden; as cringing injustice, to fly with falcons, this voice within crying our legacies. I love a swan, as born to fly, where hell is cautious to approach; this piece of fiction, for pains are colored, distorted in conversations; to judge mankind, as one that’s perfect, where decease in thy middle game; as shifting through meadows, peering at lemurs, at once, a product of parents; to crack a code, where dungeons availed, as skiing through inner portals; to aflame as wise, this person of scars, a woman in hearts a swan. It could be life, to break and perish, where arts would flurry through ghosts; but time is gentle, for a thoughtful mind, as I equipped us with raja; this type of thinking, as drenched in measures, to peak through chance that voice. I love our aches, to arise as eagles, tearing into topaz skies; this place of courage, despite our examples, to become as resented dearly; but this is price, for something beige, as terrified to fail existence; so more to love, this inner pilgrim, at times, a locomotive; and more to visions, to see beyond presence, this art thy soul.   

Travesty That Song

That inner space—your topaz eyes, abusing calmness; as strict demands, to conjure a ghost, this inveterate insecurity; to fly by wings, as torn as onions, to weep, whine and cry. I love a flower, wilting come summer, where winter devastated petals; this mystic mile, while craving love, this peril’s intuition. I danced at dawn, that twilight fever, as ferocious as near enchantment. I loved a song, this glorious woman, as your eyes refused love. We died a fraction, this match to gasoline, as but one night of tortures; as cried this love, embedded in shallowness, to expect more for nakedness; this missing arrow, to abuse cupid, while terrorized by gestures. I loved an ache, where Christ was born—this travesty of warfare; as meant to perish, trekking desert-storms, afraid that love might inflate. It had to live life—this feral passion, a bit unsung to Tao; where sable is brown, while malaise is darkened, to move by motion—this pain. We loved an image, filtered through illusions, while love broke a mansion; where dice were slung, to pause a lucky seven, as built in moments that kiss; as cried our nights, seated at swings—staring at raving tides; that to and fro, that ebb and song, those crabs clawing into sands; while meant to die, as meant to live, this paradox unraveling sins. I tried to love, beyond measure this life, where hell focused on wisdom; that terrible admission, whereto, was sorrow, this thing pushing into realities. I called a ghost, as to touch a heart, where response was instantaneous; while love lingered—this treasured denial, as to, this vicious admittance; where clocks were screaming, as time stood in motion, to realize our sun was falling: this wicked grave, as gothic as something dark, to pave a sentence while shivering. I loved a flame, while flickering in ice, as to melt a glacier: this terrible song, a fraction of love, where Love ponders as deranged. I’m staring at pictures, this minute’s escape, to fathom this thing of beauty; where psychs would cry, to feel that pain, a bit distorted concerning life: this fabulous cycle, as steaming through boats—this arc flooring our inhibitions; where love was real, a second detached, to awaken in foreign arms. I’ve cried too much, concerning this vagueness, where harvest is ripe for abandonment—as always is, this deep unction, while running from hallway mirrors—where love is gray, as so is life, to pyramid a station of bluebirds; that casual sin, embedded in brains, where life would have us guilty. I imagine this sin, as fully a soldier, trekking forbidden gardens; to die once again, at arms with love, to return a peasant at souls: this furious passage; this inner mayfly; this Christian hypocrite; as not for pain, but more this song, to crave forever a lost organ.         

Chi, Volts, & Something Holy

I feel forces, this un-casual inversion, to shoot a spark or castle a king, where hell pauses its intrusions; this seedless seed, racing through spaces, as more psychology. I feel a force, even a small smile, enlightened by grays; to flourish as spirits, this warm enchantment, to analyze each thump. This man is mad, addicted to forces, pushing passed inadequacies; the deepest thoughts, peppered by chi, while ghosts run ramped: our kingdom beckons life, as afforded grays, as perky as a woman’s aura; to ponder suffering, through third eye dilemmas, a cover shrouding our pyramids. I love with reason, not merely for she said it, alive but a fraction this inner person; to flee and fly, flitting near volcanoes, peering at lovely swans; this universal, as cornered at times, pleading for this breakthrough; to hear a psych, as constructing life, by way a subtle remark. Our worlds are spacious, even this professor’s, as one building a castle; where demons lurk, while angels war, this lantern burning pasted midnight. We felt for chi, to morph to volts, to ease into something holy: this force by souls, that gradual tug, this woman praying for clarity. I know a mother, traveling webs, a bit aloof to her dilemmas; to see for rivalry, a father in chains, while I wonder of our futures: this thing of prisons; this scandal of affairs; this light reaching beyond our hemispheres; to clash with darkness, this place that screams, as to cull our worth this eagle. I shifted a moment, to see those eyes, a bit concerned over fates: I died at times, crying her name, a fool to this large estate; where psychs would watch, a bit at distance, while collecting data; this furious drama, cut by bones, this brine and blood—to see this face, pressured by hearts, this inner manifestation—where swans dwell, this fragile soul, a bit too rough for magic. I heard a thump, to feel a volt, where seconds became intrusive: this song about love, to hold our course, a bit concerned about crossing paths; for its easy to sing, while songs are casual, about something so close to home; where Kerry smiles, this grand illusion, a bit too tired to respond.           

It was Immortal

If not for sins, those aching physicians, able your flights those skies; while skiing steeply, at bays through sable eyes, this gentle complexion; as haunted by liquor, those aches by livers, to pause a fortnight. I loved an alien, as no one could see—this shift in turns; that angular cry, embedded in smiles, as curious as one dying. I loved a fortress, at once, enchanted, for something foreign spoke our grains; this woman made wild, as seeming so humble—those weekend tales; to flee from sanity, too cold for taming, to use, abuse and reappear; those hearts for casualties, a man to his woes, if but one child—for taming self, this fire a storm, cutting through something unseen; to drive us mad, this silly young soul, while sudden that favoritism; to die as Nietzsche, or pine as Kierkegaard, as skies he could have reigned; as feeling so lost, too bold to move, too cold to love; as both to fiction, this attic-style woman, peering at something sightless. I heard distress, while fevered as a fool, to give at pace, refused; as longing for months, that sudden pash, while favored as one insane. I chased a pencil, while to call it, Woman, a bit too gray for colors; as racing through madness, this feeling beyond measure, every line a statute of thoughts; to feel us cry, forged in unbelief, as willing to perish that dream; as so confused, this place of ethics, a theologian heavy at throttles; to feature make-believe, seated in anxieties, to snap and retreat.

I’ve done little this life, courted by woes, affectionate towards nightmares; as surging planets, this breakage of minds, that internal upwelling; to drift by song, that name as ventures, while love remains a dying heroine: this space by hearts, fleeing from mirrors, to see self as one winning: those gravid sins, this biblic scar, where earth spoke of our queens; to live that life, miles from reality, whereto, we return a furry of furious fires: that woman watching; that mother swooning; those days, at times, a daughter laughing. It had to live love, this caged affair, as never that reality—but more a vision, soaring through cosmos, as alive as our last thump.         

Butterflies

I found love—drifting into comas, at flux this violent wave; to bathe in rivers, a distance from brooks, while shadowed in black-magic.  Share but a cup, Love; this wicked adventure, to see self as something distorted; those velvet eyes, at wars with cygnets, inflamed through raptures; to see a psych, but cautious to speak, where hell embedded its nature. I wing and waft, aflame a cauldron, tinkling with something kitsch; to see a man, infused with flying, to loathe that soul; for various reasons, while time’s in motion, as brave as unrelenting. I heard a seeress (female prophet), where hell was real, to see mother nurturing swans. I was soon to smile, as bent through laughter, the irony of dying. Our wells amuse, as afoul purely, while doting over a picture. I see us Love—through all that is, cleaving to memories: our poor inheritance, notwithstanding riches, to embark upon flights: this fatal charisma, that inner conundrum, that venture for par excellence. Our seasons probe, staring at follicles, peering into deciduous winds; where love is virtue, but ever for reasons, to give us something tangible; at least to hearts, that inner valve, revved by surprise your eyes; to perish permanence, this loyal love, while angered over circumstances: our chimerical reality, floating as fleeing, as to face the unreal; that time of cultures, that inner therapist, those waves by charge a tsunami; to come to terms, if but at seconds, to see for human powers. Our days are long, peering at diamond-rings, while musing, Rihanna—and more a trance, to see surprises, while steeped in raja practices. I love a swan, this velvet pariah, nibbling sacred ambrosia.  I spoke to fathers, but hell was richer, to know a lack of courage: I spoke to mothers, to see for flames, those women bent on justice; but more to ours, this wealth of confusion, permeated by choices: that trenchant woe; those treacherous waves, as flipping through portals this dream; to love us more, as to disembark, this portal through time a rapture. We come to fly, as well to conquer, streaming ethereal motives; this climb in shifts, this spiritual activity, this aftermath of tragedy; to have that day, seated as face to soul, cringing this morbid inflection.  I love a swan, as counted in wounds, where alarms ring throughout eternity; to see a spot, neatly tucked, as to effect a serious winter; this locomotive, as such a word, as to speak to inner engines: this wealth of rhymes, this psychical art, to flourish by ways of truths.  

Flying into Darkness

It’s terrifying—our brains as banshees, fevered by garden portraits; to have that image, or more that perception, streaming through something karnac (deserted): this matrix of terror; this womb of friendships; this flux by waves a furnace; to include a swan, this forbidden deepness, where one swears by something simple—afflux with life, running from mirrors, scared to repot our attics. We felt a choir, while to hear our aria, as parched by rain that thunder: to censor such grayness, longing for ugliness, confounded by our pictures; to unlatch freedoms, those spacial particles, a bit giddy over something terrible; to die as children, reaching for mentors, to die as adults: this humble calm, quavering through hertz—some sort of vibrant kingdom; as to wring our karmas, sighted by corruption, while forced to repaint canvases: that murky memory, that mansion of cries, that time it happened to us: (It’s quite amazing to perish by our own doings while rushing to make those infractions again). It’s called, insanity, this mental cloying, as reaching for that joyous second; to become horrible, this inner portrait, to despise indelible realities—this face in mirrors, but nearly comatose—our thoughts thundering drums—while tussling guilt, this stage attraction, as beautiful as pure enchantment. We rest is silence, wrested beyond redemption—this frantic, terrifying myth; to bathe a bolt, in something pure, raging through halls of romance; to vet a feeling—so distant from self, too high to witness our insanity. We live in moments, as (abandoned artifacts), craving that feeling they brought: that radiant alchemy, seasoned by souls—this transformative feeling—as giving in, soaring through fragments, to awaken a somber slumber: that sore intensity, as to admire yesterday, cleaving to something morbid: that slanted perspective; that tired cliché; those seconds that become stratagems—where roses are gothic, drenched in haunted ink—this furious, flying kiss—as attached to motion, this fright of sameness, as casual as a passing glance. We soon awaken, wrested in twilights, attempting to frame something glorious: arrested by hopes; shackled to instincts; at times, beyond, but shameless—as haunted a scream, invested in colors, this slight addiction for newness—where life is courage, trekking through sewers, in search of a vineyard: this complicated portrait, where arts are wretched, but filled with heavens—to reach for cultures, this terrible training, while to merge with a perfect image—this radiant person, as seeing our worth, to arrange our lives according to purities. It couldn’t be real—those probing brains, enlove a soul treading mire; to seek for therapy, to learn of hate—this fragile dilemma—where self is bashed, this mental inheritance, to see in shame that star; those inner wings, flapping haphazardly, to balance but skies those horizons; to touch a feeling, rooted in calmness, to settle into that feeling; where love is perfect, by conditioned behaviors, as to live our dreams. 

Vacuum (Curious Feelings)

We heard a song, beyond our brooks, captured by time; to arrive a dead man, filled with pastels, to mimic a false impression; this passive harp, or this aggressive flute, pictured at moments that birth; where swans glare, painted in vagueness, (all those years of negative images); as becoming legacies, while inculcated dearly, where to forfeit a search for motives. Our tides sing, those flickers of ghosts, a woman twice his wisdom: our seaward sit down, stationed at deserts, reaching this dusky cloud: while steeped in hertz, remembering something said, afraid to sit near her father; but this is mother, that fatal heart, as to hate forever those sands; to count a thousand grains, ashamed of nothing—this outer fairytale—as bought and sold, to give a refund, cleaving to images. Time’s a lantern, filled with cosmic lights, as vengeful as leprechauns; as such a woman, to hate that man, (at odds him finding love); this sick contention, as daughters listen, to witness blackmail. It becomes apparent—our pains as one—this shared hostility; where father dwells, in pure oblivion, subject to a wealth of spirals; this cord by souls, that electric art, this furry buried in years—to hear of filth, while ours sits omitted, to paint a puzzle speaking of innocence. It’s more, “He did this, while I loved more,” as portrayed in old movies; where this is life, while pleading for fairness, that lost diamond—as rays peak, to trigger intuition, where measurements are drawn. It becomes madness, to outwit inveterate marks, tiptoeing through damages: that crying circuit, to hear it for years, as evidence becomes worthless: we see it daily, victims of a lost age, where today’s song is quite unique: that buoyant soul, entrenched in sadness, paving his way in literature; as sung our roses, where bees seek solace, this intrapsychical event—this malice of souls, angered as foundation, a bit unimpressed; to flit through meadows, to coddle swans, in search for unyielding loyalty—in spite of truths, for such is nonsense, unless in our favor. It must have been love, as now inverted, to stimulus such hatred; as falling forward, where love was backwards—this sickly, tragic event; to hope for more, where less was given, to share a woman with multiple men; this tale for brooks, to side with death, this fever by far a daily occurrence; while driven our minds, as to seek for solace, this marvelous soul; where laws are dangerous, as never to respect us—that thing that was living. 

Jumping Jacks

I’ve thought of woes, speeding through clarity, pausing at red lights, where senses seep suddenly, racing through gravel, but weakened by your aura; to have a swan, this deep affection, to see something different in women. Its reaped reality, to see you grieving—that feeling of heaviness; as cultured artfully, this mystic yawning, to perish by heart’s infinity—that rolling stone, tilted as bent, feigning as one controlled; to laugh it off, instinctive that moment, to utter, “Sobriety is far reaching”—as meant to sin, this casual secret, spoken but unheard; this nerd of woes, peering at crows, a painted griffin at your ceiling; to expose pain, while sipping wells, this rope too short to rescue. We know for hell, to want for peace, that crooked thought concerning liquor. I know a friend, as fully a liar, trekking this inner haven—while built in webs, ever a new person, as effective as kryptonite—this murderous attraction, spent for intoxication, to enter while sinning your life; that dear contraction, where earth is numb, this flurry by vultures our arts. I must appear, in mere a sentence, to confess such frightening waves; this vicious woman, to give us birth, while deeply compassionate—that contradiction, as sheer reality, while to fight against mimicries—those by souls, this prime location, to know but what we witness—that feral night, to awaken pure, as to offer a son breakfast. I laugh to write it, as cautious as kittens, to watch that gentle mother: our woes are buried, to flourish through moments—a mere gesture awakens our childhoods—where father appears, or mother cheers, while hell invades our inwards—this rich advancement, to realize trauma, while staring at a complete stranger. I’ve seen this place, as to ponder theories, while in reality a man suffers—to play it safely, crying in silence, as to work things out on our own. It angers our psychs, as trained in mind-wars, while tenacity stipples infection—that long spell-crest, that mental credenza, fleeing a maze of memoirs—to speak it plainly, this tortured art, this pedal by fire our literary—as damaged through time, puffing a cigar, to ponder this would be catastrophe—that feral woman, set to dominate, while hell pushes our cinemas—to die with grace, as fully a storm, to arise filled with vengeance.   

We Love Christ

We tap into—this infused force, to purchase by concentration: this beloved myth, founded through experience—your eyes my detriment; to censor life, as enlove with life, wanting for understanding; this plagued polarity, sessions at souls, to remember your tremors: this dark place, that irrational fear, to hug me at trembles. It’s long to live, this caged bird, while to hear us singing—of glory this fire, our christic woes, encapsulated in powers; to hush those pains, as ingrained in prints—those paws gnawing at feathers: our delicate cries; our mothers feuding; where fathers stand at a loss. I told a psych, a bit for weary, to concentrate on paranoia; for this is law, to feed that vest, as to perish from offshoots. Its magic that thought, to receive your chi, this mystery by miles; to tumble through seaweed, or chisel at plankton—this deep upwelling; to crawl forever, seated at a sidewalk, a bit too manic too speak; where Chrystal came, this beautiful Wiccan, where fevers grew unto nothing: this life of souls, our christic arts, inflamed through ghosts within; to see you fly, this favorite soul—our nights stationed in chants.

It never ended, but it never started, while to harmonize illusions; this space of souls, piecing realities, to ask a psych a simple question; to receive textbooks, as opposed to truths, enflamed with Sufis; this miracle mile, whereat, are pains, whereto, is experience; to sale a dream, as something of worth, to chant into a frenzy. I know a Zenist, this small woman, as large as glaciers—to forward forever, even our affliction—your eyes sleeping in agonies. I tried to speak, but struck with aphasia, to reckon your mother: this stern woman, that lenient father, as both rotate into tsunamis. It had to live pains, while struck through joys, to consider concentration; to feel it burn, while looming afar, this scar by chase our dreams.

I’m hearing love, rooted in forests, our stumbling humanities; to picture silence, as but a string, adrift a sea of fires; where love is you, painted as forever, to meet God through woman: this blatant challenge, as to open our eyes, this word by chance our segues. I’m hearing chants, adrift through tears, typing as to realize destinies: this flaming pain, scarred for life, as enlove with Christ; this Holy Ghost, this furious Yahweh, to stream unto a trance; where love is pure, this rich experience, to give this life; as to slant a swan, or to plant a geese, this man by shames a goose; where rain is dripping, as sulfur settles, while tenors echo.

I love your voice, as so slanted, to realize it was but a kiss; or more to coffee, to give it all, for that fair affection. I love a Ghost, a man as furious, to writhe closely to zealots; but not to fear, for cultures educate, while to avoid extremes; this thing of love, to hold our peace, while deep into your heart: this place of spiders; this coming through me; this change in temperaments. I loved a Zenist, or maybe a yogi, to feature as a Christian; while hell was afar, our stomachs growled—our reason howled; to feel as pictures, stuck in time, as chanting unto a fever.       

Casual Musings

Forgive us for wanting light, as christic souls—this journey through deaths; to feel eternity, this mile of splinters, that casual nonchalance; as borne this maze, to have come as daughters, this kind-praise-ology. Our thorns as infinite; our briers as tumbling; our attractions as convoluted; because of terror, to see something ugly, while craving ugliness in self: this deep adventure, haunted by gothic winds, each rite inherited from pagans; as now demonic, unless for convergence, to do it once more; this thing of villains, or even jurisdiction, to finally control something foreign. We shall escape, fumbling through mire, conversing with warlocks; to have this day, as dedicated to Jesus, our beloved Christ; that grand spectacle, as required that death, as ordained that resurrection; to cry of origins, featured in chaos, this rite by passage our daughters. I love a swan, as so controversial, where mothers growl over disappointments; to have that heart, as filled by sulfur, to hassle over palpitations. I shift to love; this vibrant woman—so alive with personality; to cater and withdraw—so electric the nights, fingers chilled on eyes; this furious dirge, that casual pain, our eyes pushing forward that truth. We travel graves, staring at bones, to suggest life: this random fiat; this professor by brains; that second heaven opened; as born to bellies, this thing of beast, to search your features; this common activity, while taken for granted; to realize, there’s at least three in there; this glorious song, sought after souls, to cringe and die and push and lie—that casual storm, to see you writhing, some sort of locomotive; as refusing death, seated the palm of death, this deep paradox! We love December—this month of joys, flooded by favor that agony; to see us fly, our hearts so warm, our liquor stirred in teas—this inner flight, to unleash souls, where one acknowledges powers; this deep contrast, to separate actions, as to realize, that wasn’t me; those tentacle waves, that volcanic voyage, that vehicle by stars—as deeply my chants, ranting and raving—that woman sophisticated—as seeing Christ, or something that likeness, to tickle our ribs. I know more our corpulence, that bulky body of pains, distorted by distractions—those marvelous trinkets, at love your souls, trekking mental regions—to have died a wave, as to morph through waves, while to muse through awaken-ness—this casual tile, as floored in leopards, where glue comes to life, screaming! We’re swathed by particles, this mixture of colors, our bondage something immortal—to challenge swans, to ponder passed sunlight, as prepared for darkness; this place of dungeons, to honor our joys, to paint this day as grandmother’s soul. You’re an iron furnace, at peace with kindness, but equipped to outthink nonsense: our shelter of love; our shared coffee; this snow to melt come warmth. I saw a glimpse, as one to perish, a bit sleepy eyed. I felt at home, to soon retreat, as one indifferent. It comes with time; this stitch that stirs, this teasing-tugging—as more to life, as never before, to utter, “I like you.”; instead for games, that inner temptation, to forge a theologian; those subtle pegs, to thrust egos, as transported and trotting. I must retreat; as wild as calm, peering into something heinous; as not for destruction, but more for control, to maintain some measure of control; where others stumble, for that deep craving, as to feel out of control. We’re mere lamps, glowing as fed, needling spirits; to love you more, as purely platonic—to adore your soul; this casual wind, this endless nerve, this woman by far a treasure; to smile come morning, your thought on plates, aside green onions and eggs—to sing a hymn, buried in pressures, that feeling of knots—as casual as life, searching for intensities, but those of a certain texture—to pass a locket, filled with memories, as becoming a keepsake—that inner sermon, as so iridescent, this Junoesque disguise—as paging mischief, if but a smile, this lifegiving force—where hell is real, our quavering souls, punctured through by mysticism.

Christmas

I’m drowsy, Love; mindful of you, my Love: it’s Christmas, Love; where parents sip, while children frolic, playful with eggnog. We love this way, fretted by motives this way, passing gifts this way. It becomes life, to see that smile, that feeling of mindfulness; to relish in joys, a bit more excited, while siblings are overwhelmed. You’re nearing adulthood; that racing wit; this portrait of intuition; to climb heaven, with arms reaching—so terrible that inner mischief; to feel alarmed, trekking through grayness, surfing websites. We love a swan: it’s ever that night; where hell invaded our cottage: this place of passions; that bible so near; this type of new language. You ought to read it: it controls so much; some of the greatest literature. I’m drowsy, Love; mindful of you, my Love: its mercy, Love; as dining forgiveness; this man of mirrors; to grant it to self. It becomes reality, to pardon our woes, crawling through portraits; to grow this way, heavy at minds that way, as to rearview life this way. I peer at cats, that delicate nature, as fierce as panthers; while seated in self, such delicate porcelain, to raise a paw and claw a couch.

It’s easy, my Love; gathering thoughts, my Love: it’s difficult, Love; that time of year, where many are probing souls, this small investment; to dance at checkers or I-O-You or more this feeling of presence; while mothers are silent, to ponder with joys—a pair of swanic souls; as graced with culture, forever at sins—something venial. I sit in thoughts, counting trains, this metaphor for events; those tropes of lights, as driven by force—this new person; to change daily—a friend that second—a stranger that moment. It comes with growth—a picture as signs, a claw as harbingers. I imagine candy canes, and gingerbread houses, or more, that string for souls; where Love is swooning, staring at gifts, as one to open come evening. It’s gentle this way, to remember joys this way, to forge bonds this way. I’m drowsy, Love; mindful of you, my love: it’s Christmas, Love; that inner orchestra, those caroling muses, that Red Nose Reindeer.  

Canon Fire

I give us souls, that thing through wants, as eyes churn a tear; but only one, that furious hatred, to have lived that second. I cried a desert, enlove with tumbleweed, at sects, a serious man; to dine at turmoil, a bit inhibited, to lose a vital element. It haunts by love, this vase of flowers, as appeasing discord; to see for frictions, this lively cage, as borne through essence. I love by measure, as cool a sea-breeze, channeling by method that moment; to ask for love, this bias chessboard, as affectionate as altruism; where mothers dance, this threefold woman, juggling multiple faces; to touch his hand, that vulnerable second, as dying to hear, “I love you.” I saw it slipping, this mental grip, to lose a queen. I heard it echo, this failing love, to gain a queen. It takes for mercy, to love by face, this chase through delusions; while seeing psychs, that inch by inch, to hear the word; this casual song, this piecemeal adventure, while affective deeply.  I turn to you, a daughter in veils, that mental bulb; to harness dreams, while raising love, to thump a father’s heart; as way so young, exposed to chaos, but a product of divinity; to ache at mind, this thing of ifs, to want for mother something peaceful; but what for swans, that daily sacrifice, as to realize, it never ceases; where love needs balance, as humans need oxygen, while tears need palms. It becomes a journey, scribbling upon mirrors, to shatter said mirror. We die composure, where others flourish, and we do it for Christ; but more to thoughts, this rajah event, to think through a backdoor. They call me crude, for reading every line, to utter what preachers keep silent: this lying tongue, confirmed by God, where prophets slew a kingdom; to chance with grace, this immortal art—that face but a dying dynasty; to live by force, this coarse goodbye, as to lose so much; but these are brains, bent on selfish acts, to think of self before life; but something for love, this mystic realm, featured in attributes: that fragile ego; that fawning web; while love spawns concrete; to endure love, where love suffers, at points, this fatal attraction.     
       

I met a demon, this beautiful wand, as courtly as invisible platforms; to die with grace, as to lose with grace, this terrible reality; as cut to bleed, or a bullet his mind, this fraction of persons. It couldn’t be love, as to have never met—that intimate chisel-storm; where friends become partners, while lovers become enemies, where both maintain this physical convulsion. Our songs are vicious; our murals are vivid; where all is illusion; this place of myth, while nothing occurred, as to have written a road of spikes.   

There’s Something to Idealisms

We want something special, something free; something pure through behavior; this building of portraits, something perfect, free of insecurities; to claim that something, as in part our souls, groaning to perfect perfection; as opposed to chiseling, those weeks of joy—our minds chasing islands; to perish through thoughts, while canoeing downstream, experiencing an upheaval. We accept chaos, while to challenge peace, as to indulge but a fraction. We peer and probe, searching through closets, asking disguised questions.  I’ll shift, as to speak to glories, something tragic as nearing perfection: our richness, permeated with essence, at swings, through growth, our love; something free of mire, adjusting daily—our permanent conversations; to relish in features, to admire characteristics, while satiated by attractions.  It has to feel real—this thing of souls, wanting for nothing more: that casual banter; that furious smile; that soothing gesture—where love defines personas, to see it glowing, suggested—indelible measures; to trek a dell, or sight our meadows, or to plant a wish: that well of stars; while pitching coins; such leprechaun vengeance; as searching for gold, refusing to retreat, invested wholeheartedly. I speak of love, this courageous friendship, devoid of falsehoods. I speak of futures, and loquat juices, and peach and pineapple kisses. I speak of morning breath, that familiar space, while rushing to brush our teeth. I speak of uneasiness, at mere a sentence, while acquiescing at points. It has to live love, this drumming brain—a cello in our far regions; to sing a dirge, as soothed by words, where arts are love this furnace.  We capture an image, as to sadden souls, where many flourish afar—in mere a thought, for love is rich, defined a tinge by selfishness: that aching need, to hear such music, those eyes to study our souls; that want for more, while never enough, at peace with idealisms; to wail afar, this thing of love, painted by soulmate-brushes: to finish a thought; or walk a mile; if but to recapture our love.  I speak of humans, invested dearly—too rich to jeopardize; this inner frustration, peering at society, watching where lions lurk.     

Soul-Thoughts

While to worry this space, we immortalize fear, as something viable: we imagine hells, to wrestle illusions, this mental battle. I see a sage, so young, so wise, experiencing adulthood. It comes by nature, this rigged beast, while pitted through behaviors: that stern outlook; that sudden compassion; that shift in temperaments; something unstable—is stability, in absence we groan. I read Blavatsky, peering at Theosophy, as to realize certain threads: this immortal challenge, scripted in ink, where love becomes a metaphor. I shall explain. To utter love, is to suggest likes and dislikes, while to honor a particular bias: I love you as friend; I love you as daughter: I love your style; by this love measures—a series of affections, whereby, love is a definition; but less of this, and more of that, whereto, love becomes energy: this subtle rift, for souls are powerful, while to deceive by an inner thump. It’s so sublime, as so detached, an art becoming haywire—but dearly immortal, shifting at segments, immortalizing a daughter. I’ve felt mother, fraught with secrets, cringing outcomes, loathing his soul; or reading daily, while gleaning gifts, as to feed the immortal—that part of self, longing for its nature, as mischief as pure; but “Make hard thy soul against the snares of self; deserve for it the name of “Diamond Soul””; where this is living, as to witness more things, while rarely to exhaust an aspect of living: this feeling of songs; that ecstatic chant; those ways by daughters our eyes; to die as living, as to die no more—this penultimate chase; where mothers battle, as fathers resist—this dire need for energies: that shift in time; that realm of patience; while to appease her curiosity. We speak it rarely, this conglomerate of feelings, while peering at existence; but more to daughters, learning those methods—pure novitiates lacking confusions; while feeling arrival, a false immortality, while to age with lightning: “But thou hast heard it, thou knowest all, O thou of eager, guileless Soul…and thou must choose. Then hearken yet again.” It seems for riddle, to choose that thing, as seated as immortal; that cryptic energy, to align thoughts, to glow as a square box: this challenge of sights, those immortal thoughts, while pushing fates through mind-stuff—to come as one, but still at wars, to gain a measure of lifeforce: this music dreaming, to notice a shift, as mindful as sages; to alight illusions, as to know realities, to realize this chaos—while seeing order, that deep paradox, as nothing new—but ever a sameness, whereto, are dangers, this shifting as to change it; but more to daughters, fleeing as to fly, fevered through energies.

This Thing

My thoughts are different, concerning this thing, as to realize many errors; to hear your energies, while singing your soul, as becoming a true poet; this place of silence, afflicted by life, while echoing our music. It came by chance, this radical faux pas, to frighten a silent minx. I was lost in winds, twirling through spheres, at once, an adversary of mirrors; to cross through dungeons, this woman with child, chased by far that mystic; to see us distant, this aloof protection, as to emphasize a lack of interests: that supernova, as radiant as high beams, screaming: “I care less.” It becomes a world, fraught by nonchalance, to realize: We truly care. Its radical illusions, plagued by insecurities, offset by physical attractions; but all was glory, this content minx, this content poet: so what for deepness; this thing by chance; to scribble afar as bizarre? I must confess, this wretched keenness, clutching while gripping his stomach; this rich anxiety, this want for misery, this place by far our resistance; to feel your thoughts; or to walk your sorrows; to imagine this space of clarities; this mobile fiction, where all are weary, as to have alarmed a fellow poet. I chased an image, as not for possession, but some sort of sickness; this wild root, this broken branch, this cage at needs—escape! I probe to see, if but a fraction—this part of our lives; as touching a centerpiece, or blowing out a lamp, with nothing but flurry this detachment. I needed humility, as oh it came, to rearrange a series of intelligence: that smoking cigar; those years on thoughts; that hare peering at our garden. I must advance, at least in self, if but a dream to fathom; as you must admit, this random madness—has influenced our spirits. I shift to turn, speaking not of love, this shallow passing; but more to mystery, this force by winds, this inner affliction: a set of energies, digging through intuition, congested by genetics. I feel a secret, one pushing through lights, this thing concerning brains; as maybe depression or maybe mania or maybe both; or maybe, some sort of sadness, tugging at souls, this likeness by far familiar; to polish a statue, or pet a pink elephant, or maybe to run to solace. I can’t but dream, if but to know, where life would feature a new stream; that casual art, at tears to hear, that casual storm.

Unchained Energy

I feel blasé; whereat, are sensations: I feel them in passing; to image a face, this mystic wonder, to survey our connection; this myth of legends, those pegs of legacies—your eyes forgotten in time; this spacial touching, our mimicry of souls, this familiar place; those dreams come midnight, to die but a breath, rising into energies; where warmth paralyzes, this vacuum afar, as purposed this star-crest well. I visit dungeons, this wealth of wisdom, painting turquoise screams: that magic by sorrows; those blurry lakes; that mirror your reflection. I’m soon a Raja, this mental yogi, experiencing several trials; for minds feel drama, that furnace of guillotines—those silent memories—to peek at turn, this viral sensation, where phantoms become real: our broken wholeness; that drifting moon; that raindrop upon petals; to smoke a clove, peering at images, at tears to confess your glory. Our days are darkened; our souls are awakened; those pains become legendary. I’ve died to heal—this deep contrast, as forged in grayness; to unravel agonies, while feigning normal, a man with too many hang-ups; to wonder for clearance, where all are adversaries, a person afflicted with searching; as never enough, for we never arrive, appeased nearly at moments: that recognition, as pure intuition, to have come to that space; where harmony dwells, to give but a taste—another month of chasing! I found you somber, this instant connection, where all was taken for granted. It becomes normal, to float by chance, arriving in various spaces; where pain is rich, for buildings were forsook, as all was given in a blink; to perish—alive, at woes to explain, fevered by this casual stream; where love is art, as beauty is life, where both flourish with grace. I heard a thought; where all went silent; while energy burrowed into souls. I had a dream, to see your heart, where all became an image: this beautiful cabin; this moral monster; this puff by way of sky-domes. It takes for souls—to arrive by fates—while terrified of closure; for then it begins—this loop by graces—that face by instincts.

Hi Love

At points in time, we catch visions, similar to pictographs—whereat, are horsemen, bowmen, or thickets; even lions, wolves, or leopards; to see us float, as never quenched, wrestling those quells of life; this Erebus, as sighted in fiction, to realize something was spoken; those hidden dimensions, this world of similes, this portrait as hasty our minds; to decode a falcon, or debone a griffin, at moments singing with Jeremiah: that welkin dirge; those lamentations; to arrive at somber peace. (Did we lose to gain?)—as fretted as mothers, our masks but seconds abroad; to enter mass, as cold as purgatory, as warm as that very place; where crows are enormous, plucking at a statue, our music as darkness through owls. Our tense has shifted, exploring new terrain, as all things must change—else for torture, a parcel as an omen, trekking five inches of quicksand; to grip a quilt, as to watch it sink, while sudden a rainstorm. We’re counting images, our sails for regrets, a bit too partial to rants: those seated throws, as skewing reason, to utter—“It must be true”; where pieces are wailing, for this thing of comforts, while minds are bent on tortures: this mile a minute; that locomotive; that scarecrow scaring nothing; as feeling blackmailed, while stuck to silence, where engrams are forging an earthquake: our souls as riddled; our minds as captured; this valve leaking sulfur. It had to be love, this seashore agony—our pictures as seeming distorted; to ask of time, those morbid questions, as to realize a hint of joys.  (I confess a truth): We get more from this, than we do from that, where that is feigning as normal. Our aches are roses, this playground of wisdom, this sign seated on a sofa; to paint a tuffet, this streaming thunder, as sighted that lightening: this inner castle, plaid with experience, to ask of this telic future. I felt a rhythm, to escape formats, wherewith, is a bit decorated; but truth to lights—our purple existence, a zephyr as a whisper; that inner vase, as chasing pigeons, to ask of one—“Please speak”; where times are surreal, to hear that voice, at once, that volcano: this inner dimension, as sighted intuition, a swan to voyage waves.        

In Silence

Our ghetto lives, so rough that terrain, afflicted by righteousness; to have lived a scoundrel, as some sort of mystic, our dungeons speaking in tongues; this foreign language, thrust as heartbeats, to seek African drums; this portal of madness, as effected chaos, to realize descendants: such tragic unity; such mystic yogis—this realm, his world, a daymare; as kind to madness, a stranger to kindness, as some sort of paradox; to want but chi, a giant in fair beauty, as loved beyond stature: that furious song, adrift through portals, as reminded of ghettoes. It couldn’t be life, this absent adventure, to shift with such passion; as born to sing, that silent hymn, this chant by brains and fusions: that terrible screeching; to awaken in screams, pulling palms as not to afflict—this reason for living, haunted by grayness—that needs to define our mystics. I’m sketching merely, this split in souls, as to ignite a séance; this ritual by seas, this covenant of Wiccans, this Witch by arts—our Christian souls; as riddled to live, pulling at sources, this change in eyes, our afflictions. It couldn’t be life, this mystic fuse, as forever a distant sky; to rise by trades, as falling by souls, to drift so murky that oddness: this rigged bridge, that prison of freedoms, as every step determines our futures; to feel in moments—the deepest joys, as altered through eternity. It couldn’t be real, as something so vague, to have scarred three generations: our ferocious souls, scaling mountains, while to arouse a bestial feeling: this need for silence; that need for floating; as to harness a wild monster—with time a friend, as conditioned through practice, where love becomes a voice: that tender aura; those wails for poorness; those professors at prayer—their yoga; to forge a trestle, if but a missile, to come as souls one nature: this wind our love, pushing past barriers, as to warm affections within: that treasured well; those ancient souls; that cry for one that lived. I’m seeking miracles, in such a pond, feeding as to distract this soul—from something course, to center a diamond, as roaming islands: that furious song; that powerful temperament; that jolt, that movement, that life.      

Something Has Morphed or Gone Away: Shall it Return?

There comes a release, this disappearance, after years of struggle; as not for clearance, but points of growth, where demons are eradicated. I’m hesitant to speak, for fire erupts, where waters have become dry; this type of majesty, arguing with forces, wrestling with brains; that needs to interpret, this ground of mediums, this sense of nothingness; as casual airs, that art for waiting, as needing those engines; to court a dove, or flare green eyes, or uplift a swan; this patience by psychs, to see it at that moment, as to become that very essence; this old endeavor, where perfected with trials, those encounters by measure a convergence. I’ve lost a ritual, awaiting a new growth, this space of middles: that grounded soil; those mystic roots; this type of healing; to touch a face, or pet a vice, as letting go forever; this dream of visions, this cycle of pains, this demon on a hiatus; to appear with time, as retreating with treason, where brains grow strengths: those type of tentacles; that anchor by crane uplifted; that psychical prayer; as hearts emerge, those inner sub-brains, to effuse souls; that resistance, as sheer explosions, where a countenance is altered: those neurotransmitters; that power through us—as communicating that centered person; to court personality, or conjure his ghosts, that vigil by candle a revelation; but more to joys, or something akin to, this valley by meadows a forest; where souls cry, as feeling distorted, while spirits mingle with cousins. I knew a feeling, to lose a feeling, as said feeling is arising: I knew a ritual, to morph beyond, as to arrive within a new ritual: its colorful madness; rashes as bloody red; this fortress by minds a mirage; to see existence, this dark claim, at points, a miracle; where mothers dance, that outer ballroom—the belle in their children’s eyes; as broken but whole—those inner needs, at war with faint positions; as something leaves, to find for comforts, that thing that causes evils: as loving that life; as catching infinity; as sworn to mystics. I fretted tumbleweed, this curious nature, as to fathom its origin; to see us tumbling, alone some desert, to approach an oasis: this fevered mirage; while tasting waters, to appear abed that feeling; where life has evolved, as to enter dimensions, this next phase of lights: this traumatic slant; this golden reference, those peaks through minds—an evolution!—to see our hearts, beating upon wires, where cages open—that type of magic, to drop our souls, as to arrive a fallen miracle; or more illusions, to offset machinery, where a false image becomes a detriment.

Transitions

I must adjust, printed on porches, tugging this clove; that inner season, that mental canvas, those trials by nature that love; to soon remember, of something so wicked, as never before such life: that gentle death; that hellish heaven; that purgatorial space; at once, to perish, if but to listen, that secret den. It must have been life, our Adonis enslaved, by wretched this wave; to flee at turmoil, as imprinted by mistakes, while Love denied a castle: this waking madness; that pickled tulip; those days at arms with justice; while built as perfect, a mind astray, at terrors that shattered pash. I’m slow to see us, that correlation, while tugging at realities: those mawkish mirrors, treaded through darkness, that grave of light—as came his mind, chiseled with a toothpick, scraping that inner nucleus; to find your face, hidden beneath angers, a stockroom of treasured memories; but oh to grieving, as to finally realize, Adonis had nothing to go by: those vacant slots; that empty cedarchest; that credenza of unappealing prose; to die alone, as to rise alone, as to realize there was never Love; that inner person; that musicality; that color of hardships; where Love would perish, as reborn to arms—our texture a legacy; as birds chirped, while dolphins performed—in honor this thing that couldn’t breathe. Oh for reality, this impartial dragon, tugging at threaded delusions; this awkward confession, as forfeiting madness, to revisit that death; where prose soared, by deep illusion, that reality mangled; to finally see her, this brilliant winner, soaring her own songs: that miracle art; rewarded daily; at tears that I died; while treading motives, to forsake motives, to abide by forbidden laws; that inner life, filtered through kingdoms, where too much ignited a fortress. I must confess, as dying while living, this place of profound wisdom; to see your heart, as melded to glory—this furious fever.    

I Remember You

In thoughts for weeks, the pleasure of hearts, as pictured your soul; to die with grace, this face of fools, as natural as feng shui. I live a space, courting your dreams, by purpose to fly; this darkened city, fleeing through traffic, this ritual your soul. I loved an image, to know but a name, the magnitude of this travesty: your heart in ruins; my throat as tied; this place we can’t exist; while burdened that life, a psych as a human, a friend as a casualty; to court a flower, that deep resistance, as fielded in portraits. I took to crazy, as taken by beauty, to lose our frontier: our mothers watching; our fathers grieving; this thing concerning madness; but more to features, as pulling souls, to remember that crooked smile. I’ve seen it thrice, to die each time, this piece of self afloat: that terrible passion; that clashing of graves; those tired tears. It couldn’t be life—this winded lung, screaming as unheard to silence; as bugs were near, to fuel such ecstasy, while this woman mused gently: that frantic death; as sown in anguish; to give no more as given; this furious beast—our wombs as turmoil—this sanctuary of deaths: that fabulous grin, while hidden in sorrows, to extend but a tinge of light; as wrapped in chaos, to perish softly—this prophetic outgrowth. I loved as broken, this wretched curse, trekking our needed dregs: this soft aggression; that fatal compassion; those times arguing with mirrors; to find this force, as course as grits, this ritual by gaits our sadness; to see for months, passing through fires—as to slant his perception—if but to breathe, that season of amore, as foreign faces depicted in visions: this spirit of touching; as to feel so much; alone this barrier of dungeons; where mothers cried, as hectic as semen, floating through spacial times: this cryptic madness, to love your air, speeding as to race your tendencies; that psychotic soul, without a chance in Paris, indeed, this root of almond trees. I saw a vision, while deep the mania, to arrive at doorsteps: this crazed light; this crying of ears; those beige pits; where love is raw, as rarely seen, while fools claw infinity; that furious castle, as sewn in silence, with never a reason to love.  

Dedicated to Perception, This Thing by Wings

I appeal to pash, that winter sensation, that mental effusion; as much to heart, as casual sins, this venial attraction: our haphazard souls; so pure of behaviors; while entertaining sin: this misconception; this human’s origin; that chance by art a science. I love redemption, this thought for needs, crafted by our dreams; to scream eternal, to something divine, as to realize, “It couldn’t be us”; as not exclusive, but at turns as partial, so alive this Poe mentality: to write forever, streaming through Kierkegaard, to stumble at Hume; but more to pash, those fabulous skies, those eyes—her soul—a miracle; to ponder that show, those vocal implications, as pictured through religion; this fanatic dream, as screened in contours, to recognize this goddess affair. I saw an angel, at struggles that rightness, where wrong is etching a portrait; to fall by stars, as accusing God, for deep that mystic furnace; where souls perish, to cherish rebirth, while activated through sins; this plural secret, to fidget and watch, adrift this cold weather. I loved a dream—this “No chance in hell,” as reality tumbled: that chill of illusions; that frightening beauty; that reason to silence pash. We bleed souls, scraping a carcass, infused by something vague: that gorgeous dimple; that marvelous terror; while madness is rehab: that rift through minds, as living this life, at motion this grave enchantment. I sought a storehouse, formed as bestial, to cater to that cure: those cryptic eyes, by rites an ocean, broken where they travel. Our pelagic souls, filtered by aquatic grays, searching the Quiddity of sensations; as death to life, or more life to death, by chance that power a charity; to want with measure, while never for lost, too perfect this perfect nightmare: our reason unshod; for childhood insanity; to hear her screaming for loyalties; while fast and free, concerned with self, puffing too much for love.