We
sit in gentleness, racketeering love, to spaceship infection; we lose to win,
to reach grayly, for speaking strongly; its tears to love, to gambol an inner
challenge, keeling at lifesupport. The soul in beige, to struggle a smile, the
essence of virtue; it’s telic to feel it, a foreign woman, as revved as
addiction; where echelon suffers, to yearn for lesser—our culture for rental.
There’s
card games, to suture indignation, as opposed to ranting; the nature of vending
machines, to purchase a gram, to mingle with porn stars; it’s ever a dream, up
and ‘til—the bacteria grows limbs; where movies speak, while nerves spasm, to
drain through nightfall. The stage is poetry, to live a novella, to awaken
disgruntle; in which are pains, to scrape through ribs, the panic of a tough
texture; whereto, the stillness of coldness, to perish the first breath.
We
live it, as detached as emotional, frowning the paradox. The tour to run, to
feel intensely, feigning a vineyard afar; where rain is friendship, even his
right arm, to speak of love; whereto—is trust, the field before the table, a
gangster in a tuxedo; it’s hell for joys, to know for touching, the extent of
intervals; where justice suffers, disguised as love, to greet a family with
lies.
We
flip through adventures, to racketeer love, asearch for one of worth—even a
confidant; where heaven deigns, to permeate souls, aglow in a little office; in
which words were few, to speak of experts, a woman pictured in black guise; but
this the mystery, to change a countenance, to feel a fever; where the goddess
rose, to see a god, the two as distant as never.
