This
famous apparatus, filled with arithmetic, the badge of this terror; where gods
perish, for chasing—the goddess, inflamed with eczema. We nibble bait, pulled
through ghosts, dreaming in a basin. I love you—and die—to fumble an inner
battle—where daughters cry, to feel the wings, alone in a bedroom. My soul’s a
beast, even a bird, to bite for nectar; and blood is dripping, the rage of his
mind, a cactus in an ocean. I trek a cemetery, and tug for bones, that alive
the soils. It’s more a caption, to strain the virtue, the dice of chance; to
flood a church, for deep confession, a bit confounded. The wheels spin, and
fraught with sin, to scream for sullen; and mothers perish, to see for rain, a
son with a pistol. It’s deep the debts, a fatal decision, the dust of a dreary
design; where drums bubble, to know for banished, a barrel in an ocean. Oh for
earth, as vast as deserts, a vivid vexation; where minds quake, and souls
quiver, adrift the quicksand. I love you—to never hear you—a needle in a nest;
for this is love, for a level shy, as sacred as silver; where hearts are pained,
a pregnant pulse, as hardened as hell. I feel an engine, a flurry of fevers,
the bones of this building; where daughters smile, but dread the dirt, a cobweb
of pressures; in which for light, the lev
of gods, to comb comfort, and scrape a collar. It’s more this life, a fatal
condition, a creature for chaos; where gates are barren, a tragic impulse, the
fiction of comforts; and flowers—become films, to capture this floating
feature; in which is torture, the furniture of grime, to paint a perfect smile.
I see for pictures, to judge for perfect, a ghostly guitar; and touch a
mannequin, to see his face—the birds of paradise! It lies and tears, to forward
the darkside, as beige as khaki vowels; where art is dying, to fuse tomorrow,
while hewing the nightfall.
