Its
fanatical passions, crashing into souls, the risk of his mind; we perish this
night, a seed for a thief, the ink of trembles. I love for law, the Lord in
blankets, to stand the tribunal; and how to know, the brain for slanted,
falling through dimensions—and near for sacral, to love a poetess, to lay claim
to eyes. It’s but a moment, to define a life, soaring through monotony; where
trinkets speak, the ritual of love, a daughter as a swan—her mother as dove. I
hated through love, bent and psychotic, the fever of our station; and wistful
feelings, to kill the person, to know the regrets. I cry the pensive, to
remember a gaze, our lives the fret of panic. Oh I disappear, to think for
psychs, and misperceived; and never could—the volt of dungeons, to drop it and
flee; and do forgive, the psychic billows, the children grieving; to watch for
parents, in knee deep addictions, to speak of apologies. I fell that lot, to
hear for promise, to hear, “Don’t judge me”: and oh to drift, to think for
beauty, a marvelous contour; to gyrate and shift, ever that closer, to collapse
and laugh; where pictures form, the grit of dying, even in small fragments. Its
territory woes, to claim for her, although the seasons are plural; and god
died, to love a myth, and she cried, “I’m sorry.” I live it—the grave, a bit
for transformed, and nearly gunned down—this empyreal love; where daughters
cringe, to see for flames, the depth of humanity; to fall and lie, to live and
die, a bit untrue. I give it to hear it this love in shadows and buried in
graves, and I couldn’t explain—the time and deaths shifted through the tensions
of souls. It’s true the night, to mourn the morning, running towards broken
sighs. Oh the dialogue, to stream through ghosts, a temblor to the brain; in
which is passion, the souls are printed, to wrestle a woman for love.
