Oh
the nectar of circuits, fleeing to flee, to embody electricity—the form of our
nature, for a tender spirit, infused in layers. Oh the lovelock, the visions—of
a mystic addict—ever that terrified, stressing the dreams, to feature a trance;
and how to explain, this fantast soul, a living paradox, even a koan; where
music is linchpins, to whisper the winsome, to meditate teachers: the journey
of gods, to reach for goddesses, to imbue a fireplace. We watch—in
anticipation, the sanctum of hearts, to generate fireballs—that closer that
life, to outsoar pain, if but a keystone moment; to drift afar, while sitting
in stillness, to fall knees to the floor. Oh the luminous, a sacred secret, to
share and feel attached. I reckon this path, attempting for detached, as
sensitive as nerve-waves; where pathos is shunned—the firebrand of love, this
person of persons, trekking through a thunderstorm; in which to live, the
elixir of rain, to ponder his mother. Oh the nonplus, the mystery of pain, to
open and perish—the walk of apostles. We feel agog, to wrestle depression, to
ignore the outcome: a teary soul, a burning spirit, a countenance enflamed;
where crows gather, to chase the fallin’ moon, to feel yogic ripples; and
this—the coldest mystery, the heart is a
telephone. Indeed this life, fully afire, to sculpt a tiara—and ever for a
young swan. I know for pain, to lose for all, to rebuild through grace—the
sublime texture, stationed near hell, to rise through christic vibes. In truth
the rain, to paralyze construction, to laugh at apologies; and this for her,
stuck for death, to create a false fortress. I fall to hear—the birds through
chirps, to tell of the addict’s confidence. Oh for gods, as feral as trances,
the sun as a halo; whereat is passion, the grandest splendor, to borderline the
grandiose; and plus for heartache, a bit disturbed, forever this life, to buck
his brain; and hitherto, a thread majestic, a walking whetstone, an opus in the
makings; so more to rain, to construct lives, to catch a swan.
Our
sculptress hearts, as exotic as bane, quilted in fevers—where love is ransom,
the hurt of waves, to give and receive; for soulprint rites, a temblor in a
mind, reaching for justice; in which is madness, a vase in an attic, even a
nightmare; and something died, that more would live, a young Utilitarian; and
never the heart, to channel Deontology, and dying in segments. It’s more the
rites, the nib of raptures, a bit rhapsodic; where god bled, a florid rose, an
aria distressed; for this is hope, and twilight dreams, to puncture a fantast;
where a goddess dwells, carving a trestle, flickering through firewood. Oh the
madness, perfect for imperfect, an inner paradise—in which is fire, and starlit
passions, a surreal notion. I fell this lot, adorned in wildfire, feeling
blue-waves—to picture the method, the art of resistance, a rumor in a soul—to
hear the whispers, to read the journal, to pause at logic; to see it rarely
wins, where hearts are scarred, a leaflet on a psyche—where hell speaks, a
tragic language, to reach for flowing light.
