Tender the Winds

It’s deeper the silence, this mystic girth, founded in glory. We love the Father, to mourn the Mother, that closer to death. Oh the inhibitions, as a social outcast, to mingle with like minds. I love you through perils, to extinguish souls, ever that nightmare; for this is life, the grandest mishaps, to mode for character; but what the secular, to take for courage, to carry a milestone. I wonder and perish, for many feel it, the course of this lightning; and many die it, the source of thunder, to call it energy; but what for depth, this inner kingdom, to flourish the esoteric; for we explain, through spirit minds, the width of divinity; to fall the dense, and complicate rills, to finally arrive—at unawares. I love you thriving, to enter the worlds, and maintain composure; for sights are grim, the cuts abroad, to filter a nation; so let it fall, the angst and hurts, to enter this

magic; where parents teach, to come for closer—to a child’s soul. I grieved the nights, standing beneath the sun, picking at a tulip; to see it paining, to feel the pangs, to pledge existence. We never should, to see for here, the scars and signs. We fell apart, but this is life, to flee disaster. The lakes are crying, filled with blood, to mourn the mountains; in which is life, to see the wilderness, to overcome sorely. It was ever the lies, to destroy the soul, to cause for vanishing. I never could, to die alone, and remain broken; so fault not—the winded rebirth, to hate a fallin’ soul; but rather rejoice, to see for swans, the measure of endurance. The days are punished, to reckon the wretched, a sort of my own. We must relax, to break the thread, to court for right; else to perish, the empty skies, as opposed to feeling diamonds. It’s love and hurt, to capture the whys, as torn as, Joseph; but never to die, this tender warmth, for a child was born.  

We’re Still Sorting through Debris

Why for this death; What did I do; and Where is my acquittal?     I ask—subduing pain, to claim this victory.     Her eyes are purple, hidden beneath the brown, to live a royal life.     I die in her honor, the rage of humility, standing at the lakes.     The hills are flooded, to witness this night, followed by three shadows.     We live integrity, to wonder of outcasts, to see the reasons shake.

     How to shatter it: the long intrusions, the present deaths, the early persecutions? I answer in rites—the onus of prayer, to travel so deeply; and there we are, an inner volt, pushing without touching; but more to love, a golden swan, to carry the skies; where angels flourish, and cherubims cry; but back to earth, that constant barrage, flaming through souls, to tug the inner reigns.     I couldn’t for lots, to infuse fallacies, bawling through silent hours; for shadows vanish, to feel alone—to reach for palms.     I hear her arms, to glide her hands, gripping from a distance; and there is life, a mystic’s mirror, as esoteric as hidden trespass.     The children thrive, to feel for life, to ignore the aftermath; and we pardon souls, to see for growth, the wheels of intellect.

     I wait to hear it, the realms of insight, that kingdom of inventions; where gods welcome love—and the goddess welcomes light, to deeply take courage.     Its feel and be free, as opposed to hiding—from the window’s reflection.     There was once a man—that ran from mirrors, where the mirrors became internal.     It’s truly a journey, to finally break free, where infractions are a mile’s length.     I never would, if only this accord, to place for reasons: this inner challenge, these vocal scars, the heights of disharmony.   

Mistakes Turn Into Dungeons When Unaddressed

What were the choices; spinning through anguish, knitted at so many lies; so we vanished, to lose so much, to gain so much!     The journey is incomplete; the war is internal; where triumphs come in series.     What is this good life; a product of thoughts, to hear recurrent screams.     She taught him life, to damage life, to leave him spinning.     Often we touch abjection—staring at motives, aghast by motives.     How did she love him; to cause such breakage, to hold a level of malice?     The rehearsal failed—forever adverse, to run from spoken words; for actions stipple, the silent mind, where the vocal speaks; so we vanish, to lose so much, to gain so much!     How for balance—to heal the wounds, chasing our dreams?     We vent and mull, and mourn and die, to realize a process; where fragments linger, to arrest a soul, geared for melancholy.    

What were the choices—when one is dying, gazing at the absurd; so we muscle our hearts, to lose a fortune, to take our journey.     How did she love him—where love was maybe, discredited by actions?     “I love you enough—to undermine you”—where this is dejection.     The stage collapsed, and all parties ran, to distress the mirrors; whereat is distance, to maintain silence, a bit unforgiving.     They live a young mind: “If I avoid you, than it’s not true.”     They perish this plight, to venture for clarity, where the lakes are muddy; so for this feeling, a smidgen less than heaviness, puffing a cigar.     They’re left to ponder, this aching mirror, standing where they spin; so we muscle our hearts, to lose a fortune, to take our journey; but woe is us, to slant our voyage, to deceive The All Seeing; for this is stress, for repeated deaths, to wonder for why.              

That Inner Chase Turned Outward

He wanted this life, this world for academia, accustomed to dysfunction; this need for proof—of something grand, and ever this chase for letters.     He met himself, if but in fractions, to live a layered life; but where to whisper, the deep infractions, to burden a professor?     There’s energy, to permeate souls, to float through traffic; where many flourish, to avoid the break, to wrestle reality. It’s ever our lot, this allotted chaos, a life of therapy; where the broken one—helps the broken—for a model that touches perfection. We riddle for rhyme, the swirling of minds, to challenge the crevices; where ghosts peek, for observant souls, to usher a retreat.     To dig—is to find, to frighten the inner man; where reality bends—a sullen exponential, to multiply in facts; whereby to see—the improper—pictured in a puzzle.     With keen thoughts, comes rapid trauma—to terrorize a soul; for something craves, the imperfect life, to challenge the appropriate; whereat an occupation, a subtle observation, to become a potential sphinx—unto self.     He thought to break free, to embark upon a journey, an inner evaluation; to peer into childhood, to see this thing called wrong, to wrestle the circumference; whereby to perish, if but to live, to become apprehensive.     We ponder more the retreats, protecting a sensitive self, to know the familiar.     He thought the following: “It couldn’t be me, the author of this pain, to cycle a repeated life”; where essence churns, to know for onus, the tacit chills; in which is knowledge, if one would see, the hands of the potter.     Healing is a process, assuredly internal, for one that needs—this healed station, the deeper insights, brave enough to reach the core.          

Hi Love IV

The ending—my Love; to justify means, to give us an edge; its unorthodox, in an orthodox setting, to play pretend. We burry so much, to plague ourselves, filled with frantic minds. I feel more your soul, a man who couldn’t think, to finally separate selves. It came at unawares, this inner division, bigger than they let on; so read the lines, to hear the tones, to see the shifts. Our battle is exclusive—and not for ruins, to witness our mirrors. We can’t for hiding, to hear a glimpse, to offset for weeks. I want for more, the midnight moon, and the morning Day Star. Has it happened; something that speaks—to the realms of fey? I pressure control, to see for guidance, an independent vessel. This threatens souls; to witness such growth, to feel the strength; but never retreat—the gates of silence, to mold the invisible; and trek Forever, scolding follies, that closer to Becoming—even a feyic self. I thought to wonder, to finally hear it, Your days are paved. Has it happened; even a heavy chest, even a passing fire? It’s ever intimate, to feel a different self, to speak sparsely. I couldn’t fathom, this very lot, to win in fractions. It’s not for misunderstood, that proves as anomaly, to then outcast the dragons; but rather to peer, even for deeply, ever to investigate; where minds are pained, to probe the regions, as opposed to not trying; so we ever fly, the endless skies, to trek the outer planes; and most important, it’s ever you, fevered with passion—to out-write a father, to learn from scholars, a gentle application. It takes for years, to keep it private, to share with likeminded souls; if only to perish, and only to live, to gain access; where this is life, that inner realm, fevered through raving souls.             

Particles of Life

He was born a Pisces, the pride of parents, destined for traumas. His parents were addicts, to feign as normal, until the demon overtook them; in which was sadness, the cities of inner pain, a fig tree to wither. They found a false self, one for comforts, the hearts of the seas; for tumultuous waves, that distant oasis, wrapped in narcotics. Each was Bipolar, coupled with liquor, to vanish in presence. Mother took the hem, while father sought the worlds: Is it better to die or live? There came a secret, to grieve a mother, but he never met this man—this man of words, this fanatic man, a fragment of history. We speak of such reality, a bit distant of facts, to peer at it academically. We say certain things: It isn’t normal; or They were uneducated; but rain is universal, a universe of addictions, where children watch—branded in mind, to learn of truths, to mimic such escapes. The fruit of his soul, knew the name of glory, welted by affliction; to meet such likeness, a repeated cycle, to lose, The fruit of his soul. We see it as normal—this fettered feud, to accommodate injustice; with likeness unto sin, where they vomit from nervousness, a coach to one’s mind. He knew upon entry, but the violence of humanity, to feel as trapped. It wasn’t—for as it is, a gem they can’t wash away. He ponders mother, to wonder of her nature, to remember the marrow of the bone; for mother was pregnant, big-eyed and glistening, tugging at this man. He couldn’t forget it—the plague of this life, the lot of the sinning souls; to compare the rhythms, and ever running, to meet a woman like mother. He dwells in prayer—the praise of glory, sorely afflicted; to chase for sanity, the endless chase, to walk with affliction.         

Thunder of the Brave

To feel you—as a pulse-ache—this rapid affection; to dream you—a sudden appearance—this rapid fever; and never die, the ache of grieving, this village of dungeons. I lived—this night, gnawing upon diamonds; to see it in passion, this laughing maniacal—a cave peeking at sanity. The two must mate, shifted through explosions, this mystery tribe. Indeed the skyscrapes, to yearn that direction, the love of hysteria; where mothers retreat, to see but a glimpse—and return that feeling. I knew for us: the pagan’s shadow, to ache the artwork, a febrile fire. It never could be—the waves of nothingness—confronting our existential; but ever it was, a ceiling of glass, morphing into a pistol; we shattered this night, crawling through shards, as busy as bleeding fiberglass. We loved the anger, to pierce the segments—and this is our life. I fell the daylight, running through tulips, snatching petals; and there you stood—a woman my brain, clashing with butterflies. We never thought it, the years of fleeing, climbing an endless ladder; but how to rest, ever for midair, feeling lethargic? The motion was joy, convoluted dearly, a chimney of soot; where doves cried, the rain was purple, and Love adored Love. The seasons morphed, for age to follow, to crave that first spark; to create the magic, filled with agony, to embark for ecstasy. Oh to feel you, as a heartbeat—this rapid affection; to scream the aches—and sudden to vanish—this rapid infusion. It’s so different, to pull at eagles, to hear your smile. We’ve longed the night-wind, to communicate the war, to seek out the noonday; and ever the art, this inner lightning, coupled with portraits; for life is visions, to love like wounds—with such intensity.           

Inner Warfare

There’s this something, working against us, from the inside. What is this thing, this inner mechanism, wreaking havoc? It works in images, to reel at inner trauma, to frighten the overseer. It ceases in moments, angered by rebukes, fishing by way of earbites; where it yearns for stagnation, to paralyze activity, for the sole purpose of blockage. It lives inherently—strumming an inward guitar, reaping from inner dialogues; but silence is twofold—to either flourish or perish; thus the conflict, to taper each thought, to push past affliction. To engage it—is an act of tiptoeing—the outlines, even the inner circle. One feels the stress, incumbent upon consciousness, to wiggle through the crevices. “Maybe a shot”—one ponders—to halt the friction; but evermore—a sure return, to recognize the vocations. Is it holy contention, the walk of Catherine, the years of Siena? I ask, touched with contrition, to grapple with a force; but freedom comes, to cease the haunting, to wonder of its return; for this is silent, the plight of holiness, to drift in for out of stations. Maybe one suffers, to think of an agent, where we carry their woes; especially the haunted, writhing through dimensions, barely for patient. I know of many, treading this atmosphere, reaping where they have sewn; to hear it at stations, driven to go further, to break free in segments. I ponder Jesus, so often in prayer, to live a tested life; so what of us, chasing such glory, to arrive at intervals—a bit naïve; but what is this something, its full genealogy, to speak it out-loud; for I know not the cycles, to see familiarity, to feel for pressure—the moment one enters in; where this is holiness, a type of warfare, captured in glimpses. Is it mind—or better minds, carrying a religious flavor; but why for this color, as opposed to purely secular? One may state the following: it targets the overseer’s thoughts. This gives it identity, plus a mind, operating within a mind. What are we left to fathom?      

Touched With Sadness

Upon a daffodil, a tear trickles, a private dialogue. I die—semi-sculpted—this inner design. The puppet is shatterproof, a lurid delusion, needed to chisel through. There’s inner madness; the castle is foggy; a mannequin breathes. Such is penchant joy: the digging of self; those inward temblors; but the heartstring—is webbed in petals, mourning teatime. There’s a padlock—requiring three keys, to shed the surface. Wherefrom is peace; and would I love it; to live as if absent? Chi has become us; an inner tarot reading, filtered through psychic prose. While young—we drank the poison, to feel affection, as dreamy as teenagers. Oh the outcome:—to spin through dungeons, to arrive in parts, searching for segments! Beauty was consumed; the angst of this station, to carry without limits: the fiery trials, burdened by flesh, to tiptoe the boundless. I see her eyes, filled with turmoil, a melody reaching. Our past—so haunted—wrought in melancholy! “Become a lyric”—I heard—and desperate to become this lyric; but deep the pit, a bit lethargic, to speak in a monotone; unless for conscious, to hide in public, the rhapsody of turmoil. The complex is riddled: a rapture for margins, a maze overtaken. I see the shores, to raid the trees, to master the forest; but heavy the trails, to languish softly, a picture in cameo. Imagine the image—of a thriving person, knitting heartaches. The path was paved—as unique to souls, to fathom our own objective; to sort for order, and riddle the sphinx, the deepest conundrum; else to fumble, the final result, to grapple for the starting line. If to hear the message, in this complex jungle, rising at risk; if to overcome, to seek the signature, that closer to deadlines!     

The Mystic Channel

Indeed to reach it, the winds of motion, struck with sorrow’s joy; the mechanics, floating through essence, to retrieve the notions. There’s magenta, threaded through turquoise, to fall that inner trance. Oh the barrage, of falling angels, to enter the inner kingdom; for something lives, the nature of persons, to feed upon the substance. It’s by—for—and through—this marvelous Being; to rise come daylight, to wrestle come all lights, to awaken to words. There’s the threat—of closeness, to perish a thousand births; and there’s the threat of distance, to churn through unspoken skies; but whom to tell, of such initiations, the constant paddling? We live it through life, the history of woes, and the presence of testimonies. I couldn’t retreat, as founded as death, where I sought the carnal will; but Your thoughts are different, even Your Wisdom—the chase of this life. We perish for traits, to forsaken the inner persons, to curl into a dungeon; where life is present, a different sort of death, to become what we seek: this vibrant star, stationed within souls, this changeless love; but oh the darkness, this variant silence, to communicate through symbols; even to vibrate, the signs of presence—and we yearn for words; but it’s by—for—and through—this marvelous Being; to trek the darkness, rounded through essence, to know Genesis closer. The fruits intoxicate, to render self-knowledge, leading to the knowledge of God; where retreat is to forsaken self, and closely to forsaken God; for something was fashioned, this wonderful likeness, the must for acceptance; else to perish, the lonely walks, to search for footprints. I give us this: to live it is love, secrecy, and access to this inward chamber.   

Inverted Skies

Oh to love her, the flowing winds, the bracts of midnight; to breathe so freely, cuffed by love, a willing butterfly.

Oh the perfume, the taste of pineapple, a hint of coconut; to fever disposition, to anticipate the unspoken, peering at an inverted sky;

to traipse the crisp breeze, to carry a heartbeat, to drip mahogany wands.  

            I’m jealous for her, a raving fool, to flatter like oils.     Oh to glisten, as sturdy as bamboo, as flexible as elements.     I love us at thought, to mingle with ghosts, partial to holy fire.

            Was it us, knitted in flesh, infusing souls; for oh the passion, the sound of unsoundness, if but a fleeting moment; to repeat the fallin’, a nearby eclipse, tearing us asunder.

            I’m vague with feelings, as foreign as distant stars, as rocky as monsoons.     Oh the valleys, to kneel through planes, to capture a lapwing. I’m lost this night, to seep into eyes, screaming for innocence; to teach the conscious, some drifting message, as courted as affections.

           

The earth was void, until ruby pearls, the gems of this aching mind; to chime like whispers, grounded in caves, to yearn for one’s destiny.     Indeed to love her, this miracle wave, running through bluish deserts; where flame is peace, to feel it thriving, the deepest echoes.     

Upwelling Skies

What for tortures—the music of life, to sit and cringe;

and ever this glory, to form a soul, to unravel inhibitions;

for oh the eyes, to mirror the feelings, to scream with disgust.

It was ever the once—to seep the depth, to love like rabbits;

but cry this night, a sightless mongoose, to strike a cobra;

where shame is shadowed, to live in disgrace, a skeleton of dungeons;

to live it like vacuums, or even blackholes, this metaphysical residue.  

 

I found us in a dark place, to summons the skylights, to lose a Pirate’s Victory:

the jewels, dying in souls, to enhance another’s heart;

for this is life, to sew where another reaps, to plant another man’s harvest;

but how to see it—this velvet trance, to traumatize the deepest regions.  

  

We crave the purple thunder, filled with heartbreaks, to trek the marshlands;

where a cygnet dwells, the measure of breath, a desert to the skies.

    

My warlike swan; the days are greener, to follow the path of peace;

but how for this thing, the lackness of training, to wrestle the cages?    

I pass a boon:

the arts are grey, in need of visions, so supply such visions;

else the heartache, to see the unspoken, and waiting for a leader;

where she lives deeply, the range of flights, to jostle every thought;

for this is life, to take the hem, while consulting with history;

so climb like ants, a little at a time, to finally achieve the goal.

   

It wasn’t meant, the here for now, to await the future;

where troubles linger, because of control, to see the truest nature

—even the essence, of those we love, to war for sunshine;

but oh the promise, for there are ways, to accomplish a single goal.

   

I laugh with God, to pressure faith, to soon escape

—the nets and caves, to see potential, that closer to Spirit.   

But Could It Be?

This is life, Love; to wrestle forces, this touchless resistance; and watch for outcomes, an overt affect, to trickle into the future.     I never saw it, to alter destiny, to offend divinity; for times are different, to fail to convey, that thing that alters futures; and what to give, to remedy malice, that thing chipping at hearts?     The pain was crucial, a churning triumph, to love the fruits; where this is you, as bold as meteors, as warm as strength.     I couldn’t find it, this thing of forgiveness, to write you of triumphs.     I barely understand, for the logic is crooked, to ponder Ecclesiastes; and deaths are prevalent, to visit an inner grave, to pull at Elisha’s bones.     We live for moments, to stress the present, to cause for evil; in which are lies, the grays of wisdom, filtered through muddy thoughts.     Suddenly we live, fettered to harvests, grieving a roadmap.     It was never this wound, to catapult love, but rather the genealogy; plus the geometry, where stars fell, and daughters prayed.     There are secrets, to pain a soul, to see for vicious; but it’s not the play—of weary souls, to confront the darkness. We merely swim—the waterless planes, to attempt for justice; and plus the anger, to misperceive beauty, as a title for glory.     We become this something, a spirit at the forefront, as spacial as airwaves; to sand the balcony, to sit the madness, tugging at moons; plus the disappointments, to kiss more rain, to pardon folly.     You may never know, the full extent, of this journey called love; to give it—as received, the color of culture; where mother was partial, for private reasons, to feel as an outcast.     I never would, these very cries, to stipple a daughter’s soul; but more this life, to grow and sing—through mudslides; else to perish, a vessel confused, to refuse the information.     I feel remiss—unless to scream it—the love of a swan; for it seems for subtle, to capture an adult, the scope of madness.    

Gradations of Love

Its life and pain, and joys and rain, to mold for excellence; its constant application!     I see a house, filled with gems, filled with subtle agitation; the angst of success, that pillar of yearning, that world of ceilings and caves; but love is gentle, to walk the storm, fevered and frightened.    

     While young—we know of love—this complex entity; but oh for simplicity, to laugh and grow, rarely snowed in, feasting with merriments.     This is epoch love; to grip for clouds—that shy of knowing; where this is life: to share in revelry, carousing through the nights.

    

We spin through trials, as middle aged souls, attuned to the jaded aspects; that subtle voice, to visit confession, to mourn a venial sin; to love come darkness, as heart-filled as baby kittens, etching sunshine.     We love with caution, until caution runs thin—the pivot of our love.

     When older, we live in unison, a body composed of parts: shifting through hurts, molded in conversation, to share our deepest fears. The two become one: to feel as she feels, to dance as he dances; in which for identity, to pull at oneself, to realize a pure reflection.

Ideally love—catapults the soul—deeper that sunshine; to pluck ideas, or string guitars, or knit a mind; the two are equals, riding a carousel, that torn for love; where moons are full—through a moonless sky, and suns are brave come nightfall.     It couldn’t be, a patent vibe, to usher forth an inner energy; and it couldn’t be, a leaping of hearts, to see her face.     The flowers are golden, even turquoise, to symbolize peace; where touch is bold, the measure of words, to sculpt a moment; and the seasons—bear fruit, even a hundredfold. 

I Love You (What Are the Affects?)

What for complex words—such as, I love you—to a complex soul? Is it ever simple, to receive such words, to live an incumbent life? I can’t fathom the value, albeit to live it, that near to mirrors; wherefore—the trauma of love, melded with the glory of love, and falling for love. I try to see it, for more than words, to ponder its affects; this intimate claim, this blacktie event, to set aside as clean; the girth of passion, the laughs and smiles, those irksome moments—to smother with kisses, a stubborn love, to see a melting reply. What for these words—such as, I love you—feeding a soulcave; to see a best friend, to raise a family, to mold progeny. I try to hear it, that aching love, those unsaid words; where tears fall, to love so much, to fathom the existential.

There’s a dream, and quite tangible, to love exclusively; to feel but one, to cringe at folly, to picture the midnight stars; if only to dream, to capture such dreams, as intimate as unskilled love.

What for complex words—such as, I love you—to a complex soul? Is it easy to love, the passion of love, a familiar stranger; to change through seasons—molded through thoughts—to shift and turn and churn and love? I try to touch it, this marvelous entity, founded in actions—plus the deep insights, riddled with haunt, to form a cache. The two become one; this is rich in secrecy, to feel a heartbeat and make a phone call. What for these words—such as, I love you—streaming a mindcave; the restless nights—where love is working—unable to sleep; a genuine moment, to feel the force, to gaze over and lock eyes. Such words—rooted in reception, to give in return; the warmth and width, the shy and wild, driving such love through eternity.   

Soulcaves Unspoken

It’s the majesty of functions, even the grandness, to operate in silence; I give us more, to measure the contours, that closer to epiphanies; to remain a mystery, for some unfiltered, to agitate rivers. We chime like sages, to maintain distance, something akin to suns; where a trance is blank, induced through persons, to transform a countenance; and still for stern, to watch this life, as intent as owls; in which the sights—are recorded in souls, to seep into consciousness.     The world is partial, to certain energies, to favor determination; where drives are inward, and morph outwardly, to sail the hidden chambers.     We encounter pains, to direct energies, and sit in silence; to witness activity, soaring upon thoughts, to touch an ancestor.     We rarely see it; this grand capacity, to reach souls; we merely know it—through subtle clues, through the privacy of channels; that public heartbeat, wrapped in spirit, to morph with chi.     I give us more, to grieve the silence, to befriend the limits; where the edge is light, to further retreats, to embark once again.     It mustn’t be, the rift of souls, to lose such grandness; but this is design, for stricken souls, the measure of miracles; where ritual swarms—the here for now, to meet kindred souls; to find a thread, that ushers the nights, to finally take the stage; in which to see, the blend of cultures, situated around meaning.     I give us more—to wish for comforts—while the soul is enlarged; where experience is love, to tap a reservoir, to nearly return—and chasing the lights, to mold for futures, the passions of the Greats; that inner pulse, to crave the mountains, to chisel the caves; indeed, the mindwaves, to flood the heartcaves, to fountain the soulcaves!

We cried to see it—the rope of our wills, treasured as manifestations; this inner person, to meld with consciousness, for a light, that closer to truths; but it couldn’t be, that miracle mind, to embark upon sheer faith; to see results, to become the dreamcatcher, to interrogate self; where love is gray, a default for black and white, the harvest of old souls.     We saw inwardly, a transformation, to challenge certain thoughts; where tenets changed, to fish for peace, the heart of a silent warrior.     We felt vibrations, some a bit lethal, to find an untruth; in which is madness, even contradiction, to feel for contrasts.     I know for minds, a cryptic glow, to concentrate and change the flow; where children thrive, the fruits and labors, of determined parents.     It couldn’t be—this inner world, peeking through the eyes of birds; whereat are signs, even through crows, to wonder of the following: we live the faith, even objectivity, built upon the subjective; it’s highly personal, beyond a kaleidoscope, shared with a treasured few; but more to yoga, to open for portals, the richest experience; but what for access, a cherished vibe, to enter the chambers; where the walk is wild, to measure the flame, a furnace of refinements; to shift and soar, the outer realms, that closer to unlocking.     It’s meant for minds, even souls, to unravel a heartcave; or more the Spirit, to roam the earth, a city in the psyche.     I give us more, the sights and turns, to unbolt the inner craving; to touch the essence, of something grand, to push a new encounter.     It’s sheer convergence, this sacred moment, a meeting with the Paraclete; so more to surfing, the inner waves, to build through Paradise.      

To Love a Woman

Somehow it’s rare, despite the many, to seize it come death; that vacuum love, ever to transport, to hold for dear life; the torrid nuances, speckled with bliss, that one more kiss; to season grays, with spectacular colors, to feel security. Oh this chase, as fragile as chess moves, as complicated as puzzles; but we love it, to feel alive, the likeness of eternity; where Doves Cry, the rain is purple, to thirst as humans: the scales of privy, to find for perfect, that old cliché; but heart to soul, to wash her shoulders, to scrub her back—following the salient winds, the rocky mountains, to soak in a bathtub; to see her eyes, screaming affection, blaring, Barry White. The world is mythic—her candescent mind, as religious as reality; to see for webs, the skates of time, as criminal as the unspoken; thus the words, this graphic pandemic, a twist towards normal; wherefore the love, her beige brows, crafted by wisdom. We never thought it, the pains of connection, the joys of this warmth; to slice a grape, to dye wine, to mix it with clarity: the days of passion, the mix of fevers, to greet five in one; this mercurial woman, the myth of literature, as alive as seastorms. It couldn’t be—the richest womb, the greatest tease—to die that place, to nearly collapse, to pull at flesh. We defy logic, whelmed in chaos, to sense the order; for oh the theories, to pitch for quarters, to lean a coin; where this is life, a constant correlation, the sound of flutters; in which is love, a triple beat, to trouble consciousness. We couldn’t leave her—ever to watch her, as riddled as the sphinx; where passion is rain, that churning shadow, to finally yell back; to see for glitter, the eyes of Argus, a bit aroused. Oh the mystery, to perish sorely, enlove with Calypso; for oh the trials, to prove for self, that tornado of climbs.      

Soul-Reach

What could it be—the lilting of lights, to advertise personality; the constant intake, the walk of lines, to extract emotions; in which are airbeams, the sight of giraffes, to touch the castle’s ceiling; whereto—the courage of leverage, to enter a neighbor’s soul. We cringe the night-king, to wrestle the day-wounds, that further the finished gates; to die through portals, this thing called life, where love is wordless—founded in invisible actions; for one is blind, soon left to wonder, to see it in hindsight: the Sensei drives, the particles of Tao, the intuition of Zen; we’re feelings form, to endear the ghosts, to arrive at tentacles. As of lately, more internal visions, to cut the fluids of pain—with cups of reality, to round the venom, to perish like living: the arts of tension, the realms of delusions, to see it despite the contrary. It’s left to wonder—of thoughts that shade—the apes of reality; that thing for heavy, to strangle insecurities, to make an ass of oneself. It’s tribal to mate her; as aware as death, to stumble upon longevity; where two soar—the skycaves, pulling at the Lord’s heel; to see the victory, to mold prodigy, to tilt the rockingchair; but what could it be—the lilting of lights, to advertise personality; the constant downfalls, to amble the great deserts, to sew tragic emotions; in which are airwaves, to draw for rivers, an internal reservoir; whereto—the grandest leverage, to open the unknown mind; where gods chisel—the hearts of love, to cherish an oxymoron. We ponder Confucius, to realize duty, to see for confliction: the mixture of feelings, the purest contradictions, that inward firefly; where whales pause upon clouds, to mourn the billows, to crave beyond reach.        

So Much the Ingestion

It couldn’t be her eyes—shifting hypnoses, and never a thought; the lightning of marbles, or stonetablets, blinking systematically. Oh to perish, to do it newly, to pull at Australia; this blackmarket—called life, this inner Africa. Her aura’s a ballad, even R&B, a Pulitzer Award. It’s Off the Wall, this course of passions, printing vinyl; and picture for music, the breadth of her eyes, performing on a dancefloor. We chime a dungeon, to live in secret, the cults of Europe; to feel for lapwings, or even leopards, that world of rhinestones. We tread the circles, to see for miracles, to continue our trek; for oh Egyptian minds, to mingle with Greece, to feature Aristotle; where logic forms—a wealth of webs, as cultured as Ethiopia.                   

I drift the nights, to season this feeling, as born as Enlightenment; but it couldn’t be—the eyes of scrutiny, flavored with Cayenne Pepper; the steady contempt, the rounded disdain, to move as windmills.

I call it life, and court the arts, that further apart; to see for styles, the waves to touch, to offset security; where one for sights, a particular paradigm, to impose perfections; but it couldn’t be, the eyes of tension, a lighthouse thoughtful.

This is rain, an island of treasures, to alter through slights; the airs of souls, to paint a contour, to needle a personality; to witness psychoanalysis, void of sentiments, to sculpt for results.    

Companionship through the Centuries

Oh the grandiose, to answer as gods, to frighten psychs; not for thoughts, but behaviors, that closer the mentals—and maybe thoughts; but more to love, to realize needs, for deep companionship: such as Sherlock Holmes to Watson, or Traci to arts, or Romeo to Juliet. I never felt it, to finally feel it, this vulnerability; to love forever, to feel for queasy, to build the bridge; where love tiptoes—the essence of skylights, a bit for insecure. Oh the eloquence, and more the Elementary, to converse as kindred souls; to die a verb, and rise a noun, to pardon adjectives. We hope descriptions, for dear amazements, to drop a tear; for the steaks are tender, peppered with conversation, to grow intensely; to know for needs, that special group, or sacred persons; to fall the attitudes, to shift and sail, or strike art’s soul; for the coverage is awesome, as sewn as seconds, to soar through blue blood. There’re gifts for love, as solemn as babies, to stare until tears froze; the minds of angst, to address agendas, to trickle for love; or better the friendships, to sew the tassels, to knit diplomas; the hope of passions, to scold and love, to guide a comrade. I never felt it, to finally live it, a need for these colors; to work at love, to work at freedom, to live the unconditional; where children thrive, to know maturity, to drift through temperaments. I couldn’t be wrong, to hold the future—as hostage for a friend; and I couldn’t be right, to betray a soul, that proves as faithful. Let the hearts be geese, ever to flap, to pause upon a star; else for chaos, the grand as pain, mourning with a friend. It mustn’t be, a life for distance, gazing upon the world; to feel for tension, that spacial leverage, to take it too far. Oh for absence, delving deeply, to see for arks; the waves and glory, the dice and prophecies, the deepest cravings.              

Windmills Aloft

Why to love it—this mystical body, as tamed as etiquette; or to fly this death, to fumble in particles, to love for mystery; the breadth of her heart, the scope of her fractures, that much closer; to see for frowns, disguised as love—this conflicting feeling. Oh the swan, to dance the rain, as cultured as training. It’s academic, the width of graves, to flee the passions; where thus to perish, to search the outcome, filled with airborne fevers. I love her this heart, to feud with mother, a pair of lost minds; to count the waves, to flex the mountains, a pair reborn; in which to see, but thoughts of actions, to side with the impetuous.     There’s a woman, the deepest concentration, to pierce his eyes; and years apart, to touch a soul, to dig for diamonds.     Is it distance, this forever drain, to tarnish the sinks?     I gander—the hearts of women, to sense such anguish; where life is watching, to turn an eye, as bold as contradiction; and what for pain, the quakes of souls, ever this closer; to feel the furnace, to chime with sulfur, that far to the finish line; where the race continues, to die her gaze, as friendly as diplomats.     Oh the terror, to hold a memory, for times to vanish.     I want it more, to stir the moons, to feel for jolts—the measure of a moment; in which are grains, to haunt the lives—of two that disconnected; but this is life, to carry forever, as mortal as ants.     Was it us, filled with fire, to walk the bridge; where laughs were grief, to finally claim psychotic; for oh the maniacal, that much aloof, to ponder a stranger; where such is flame, to capture the voice, to die a living captive.     I’m loving the maze, to wonder the payoff, that far the rhythm; to see for cuts, an inner dungeon, to paint her pain.

My swan and suns, it was ever this root, to see for fevers; to die to live, and live to die, where mother ponders the repercussions.     I love for us, the body of essence, to fall through rising; where a woman prays, to further encounters, to touch the numen.     Oh the concentration, to go for deeper, that closer the daymare; to shift through weathers, the seasons of galaxies, that far the touchdown.     We’re running, Love—fully exposed, to court the sunshine; and oh for rain, to mold for character, the depth of personality; for it couldn’t be, this private life, to glean so much; where parents watch, in full surprise, and a woman baptizes the unseen; to quake and dance, the chance of fevers, the mind of a swan.     Oh to see it—and now to know, the measure of hearts through minds.     I’ve jumped ahead, if this be life, to see for soaring souls; where mother filters, to chisel contours, to hold the secrets.     I love for us, the night for shade, the shadow for suns; in which for light, the two are one, to counter dualisms.     I want for grain, to finally manifest, to thresh a soul; for mind is bent, as slanted as love, to culture tomorrow.     We couldn’t pause, where some are lax, to know the in-betweens.     It’s deep the nature, the mixture of skins, to conquer the milestones—to friction life.     Oh to see us, the golf of living, to make the point; and love for gray, to paint in colors, the art of intermission; to see for a cygnet, watching the background, to live the royal deaths.     I’m indebted and climbing essence, to know for substance—the ousia; where the three are one, for one are three, to operate dominions; and god heard, to love the heart, to know for precious.              

The Jolt of Volts

I love for wills—to discount life, to perish in burning arms; the gray of this pain, to flicker like rainbows, to hold us in agony; and see for joys, the churn of prayers, to move his heart—this asexual being; to flourish and perish, if only a cycle, to exhilarate the actress. Oh for features, a bit psychotic, to manage through the socials; where one could see, to tap the dungeon, to love like wolves. Oh the ravish, to channel through deaths, the meth of love—to filter the monster, to give it breath, enough to culture it; for this is love, to harness pulses, for the sake of love; to die boldly, if only to live, to remember the famines; where pain was crucial, a critical entity, surging through membranes. I must confess, the pull of beauty, a woman my equal; and even for higher, to blank the skies, to see the exospheres; in which to live, to dance through traffic, to feel for powers. I saw for angels, to court for doves, to love a swan. What for persons, to live within, to see for mirrors: the hope of rays, the days of grief, the moments of joys? I vanished the instant—her heart took beats, to live in this soul; whereat is madness, the years of anguish, to play for perfect; in which to cherish, the multiple deaths, to raid the gates; to see for glory, this plaguing ache, to take for roots. I vigil the night, to portrait the crime, for a heart was snatched; and oh the music, to grieve the clouds, to pour forth rain. It couldn’t be—and ever this mystery, this world in-between; to see for passion, the turning of spirit, to flood the entrance—this gap in time, to ballet time, a step into the future; where women rule, to share for power, to station the universe. Oh for tears, to water gardens, the reach of a sudden jolt.       

Features are Motion

I’m supposed to love you; this delicate madness, churning through storms; even our plights, the troubles of breathing. We hold for hearts, to figure this rhythm, as conscious as ferrets; to live the contempt, to find a moment, where life is perfect. I saw a gait, for a prideful woman, an instance of disappearance; to claim for souls, this inner trail, this outward force. We chimed delicately, to touch the surface, a bit dissatisfied; for neither pulled, to figure their parts, to disvalue the show; but more to love—to court for rubies, to pull for responses.

I loved your heart, a cord defensive, cycling through pains.

We tug for wailing, that close to life, at once a pair. What for converse, to filter assumptions, dragged at the root. We take it for granted, that session of mating, where some forego. 

I hear a voice, to capture a soul, to speak to love; where passion is favored, to ride the whales, soaring through waves; to sketch the chase, to face the music, to finally fail.

It’s akin to chaos, this inner drum, a moment in a series; to love the fruit, where eyes are open, to discount the trust; but ever-again, the jewels of light, to etch a pulse.

I love you here, skiing through triumphs, where words are heavy; to see it flourish, this thing of love, this midnight swim; where art is hurts, that gravid pain, satiated in love. 

Too Far the Woman/Too Far the Reach

I imagine love, the extent of virtues, to know for rich men; to see for eyes, the glitter of hypnotism, to nibble caviar; where pain is gentle, to reason the force, to tackle the mountains. I perish to fathom, the finishing schools, the classes of etiquette; to see surprises, to flicker a cuff, to know I couldn’t. I measure rings, to spin the ‘canoes, to grip a torpedo; where love is flesh, a chiseled contour, the pressure of white men. Oh the heartbeats, to stir the cosmos, to love the swans; but I couldn’t see, the realist’s agony, tugging dreadlocks. Are we alive, sorting through minutia, staring at russet visions? I ponder the days, to watch a smile, even a detached laugh. It couldn’t be, this waking grain, to move a thought; and still it is, to pass with prose, a day on a thread. I panic to feel it, this inner pulling, a bias towards pain. Oh to tell it, to scream rebukes, to manage the brain. Have I touched it; this life of ours, this inner mechanism?—for love is gray, to settle for prose, to never touch eyes; the realm of fevers, to caress a waist, to hold a rib; where moments blossom, to strip the veil, as potent as opium. I know in portions, the waves of grief, to finally court for joys; to die a sentence, and live a sentence, to feel for eternity; the wealth of honor, the call of duty, the ache of feeling distressed; but this is life, the hurt through righteousness, to harness impulses. It would never be: the picnics and wine, the movies and tears, spinning through those images; where the goddess mourns, to know her slot, to want the wild tattoos; but this for reason, the measure of tents, to mingle in certain circles; where love is actions, and rarely for displays, where intellect is master.   

While the Sun is Seeping

Oh to see, the rills of airwaves, covered in a yawn; or to rub her chest, to see a person, this man for hiding; oh the glory, semi-camouflaged, the nearness of yoni; and oh the deaths, to see the life, struggling to breathe. We love for children, our pride for joy, to live a fraction of youth; to see for growth, the unhewn diamond, molded through the years. My dearest swan—a woman

prayed, an extraordinary prayer;—and thus the lightning, and thus the force, and thus our attention. We listen closely, to the sound of silence, to hear a chirp. Is it mind—the length of rays, our tender essence? I ask—that far removed, as attached as umbilical cords. Oh the paradox, to live the distance, as close as eye lent; plus the fever, to chase the good life, to

examine souls; for oh the night, to part the waves, to cringe and resurrect; and oh for Bridget, to portray the knight, a woman shedding armor. I see it and panic—for art is gray, unless the full affect; and partial this day, the cut of minds, sipping for falling. We gather wiles, the tense of a sentence, to wonder for the cause. My dearest swan—it couldn’t be—the years of execution—to

see and fly, to court the winds, to summons the gods. I hear a woman, even a mother, parting through nouns; to see for self, to scour the jewels, to polish the heart; to see it yield—a wealth of treasures, as potent as the first time. Oh the thunder, to shred an oasis, the thought for skating and skiing; for ups are downs, to circle the spheres, to scold the monster;—to live the saint, to paint harmony, a bit for the rebel. Something’s dying, where something’s living, to feel the disjunction; to yearn consistency, in a world of schisms, to pray the swans.    

Fragments of an Hour

What if night fell, a cauldron of sunshine, a cigar of smaze; I ask the torment, for why the joy, an answer in waiting; but this is life, to plead a theory, ten years at a panel; scraping and scribing, gnawing and chewing, to come to nothingness. Oh for Sartre, and oh for Camus, to chase for treasures; to become that thing, to avoid a Hemingway, to mourn Virginia Woolf. I’m lost to it, pushing for pulling, to fall her eyes—where passion tempers, the souls of men, to love her come heartbeats; to see the flight, even a new self, where something dies—that hearts may live. We stirred a demon, to hate for worlds, that closer to normal; in which the rise, to unchain essence, a castle in a dungeon. Oh to unlock, lost of supervision, found in his ethics; to ask for God, to tiptoe belief, to see the combination; and oh the keys, to dangle his soul, an edge within an edge; where Poe spoke of dreams—and Whitman spoke of nature, that closer this manifestation; and oh for Trethewey, the river of queens, to push past stigmata. I cried this night, to mourn this day, praying to Jesus; to find and rise—the heights of hearts, to center in Spirit; where love is prose, even a French name, to see so many in passing. Oh the schedules, to sit in fire, a metaphor for pain; to give so much, disguised as little, to see results. I couldn’t laugh—for sitting still, to feel the motion; to die like living, and live like dying, to face the repercussions; and now to fly, skating and skiing, a fragment of an hour; thus the sea, to dig a soul, to push potential. I love it centered, to see it crooked, to ask for intervention; where earth is void, to uplift the dungeon, to open the cage upon clouds. It’s quite emphatic, to see and grab, a world of vague processes.    

Closer Afar

I’m back to decaf, fully distraught, to fathom mania; this feature, this entity, this visitation; to come and go—at unawares, to flicker like a spark. The hunger is there, as beige as khakis, this inner in-between; the culture of grace, ever to overwhelm, as subtle as psychotic features; to embody a soul, a rare feat, a portrait in hindsight. We filter this way, to be for humans, the scope of hypomania. I itch to see it, where life is ordered, a falcon in a basement; to see for life—the rills of death, a koan to a novice; where love is action, to feel resurrection, buried in a Bible. Oh to think it, to garner that whiff, to thirst the outer regions. I laugh to flee—the girth of pain, even a sincere look; for never to know, to wait in silence, where dots connect. It’s ever this way—the partial claims, to resist resistance. Oh to fly, forever too close, scourged for seeking; and ever to tarry, forever too far, held in contempt. It’s the rawest cycle, inching in segments, that richer the sacrifice. I cry to feel it—that inner sequence, to follow inclination; and ever that churn, to scorch the heart, a sudden volt; where days are visions, and nights are confirmation, to see the sphinx. We trek a desert, a cactus for water, to soar swiftly. It’s ever that moment, to needle the hunger, that closer afar; where paradox lives, to fathom betweens, to live ambiguity; but ever the evidence, a subjective objective, grounded in experience; where one is privy—to a dome of lightning, to traipse the nightfall. We live it to love it, the charm of shyness, to feel for comforts. Oh the majesty, to spark a wick, where a candle shimmers; to see it and dance—through lights and fixtures, that closer afar.    

Wet Asphalt

We love consistency, the honor of love, as potent as liquor; the feeling, even for numbness, to feel for spirits. I know for us, a favored dynamic, even a bit impartial; but oh the wants, to travel the mountains, skiing and skating; to see for lights, this inner cauldron, to know for ghosts; for the waves are green, to embark the journey, to panic at the ingress. This is pain, to leave so much—to dangle in the balance. The swans are watching; to glean for learning—of life vs. deaths; so more to accuracy, to live as example, that words carry impact; but what of life, the walk of adults, to perish the in-betweens? I ask—a bit unaware, to carry the burden. I’ll do for parts, the shattered maze, as brave as wolves; to see for glory, this inner flame, to touch for hearts. I loved a riddle, even more the grays, to passion through the storms. Its meter to verse, a silent curse, to rehearse a goodbye; where rain is tragic, the tour of lives, to want with emphasis: the prose and love, the hearts and gloves, the silent yearnings. Oh the glory, to grieve the precious moments, to hurt though gathered splinters. It was never this ‘plexed, a child on a tricycle, staring at mother’s eyes; to perish so often, the wealth of adult-life, to pardon decisions. It’s mix to match, that deep in prayer, to sculpt an inner fortress; where love is grand, to reach for hands, an invisible soul. I ache for us, this neverish wind, the glens of an oasis; in which is passion, the form of chi, to cycle through turmoil. It was life, the grandest fire, to meet for eloquence; whereat the flicker, to radiate gently, the call of this venture; ever to love, forever to die, watching the sun come forth.    

Songbirds are Crying

It’s a sort of sadness, to shadow the soul; our last encounter, that much the sickness. Was it us, trembling with anxiety, to love through prose? The features scream, to never meet a face, to want that feeling. Its panic for passion, to share the lost self, semi-unfastened; to love for mystery, the cadence of yearning, rocking through turmoil; in which is drastic, the heights of lows, to picture a perfect outcome; but I’m more the pessimist, to ache through sadness, to image disaster; for life is mixed, with signs of terror, to know so much baggage. Oh the graduation, to become a ghost, that inner cauldron; to flare through flames, to reach for hearts, the desire of majesty; even to heal, a fevered friend, with so much left behind. Shadows are looming, spinning in space, to court for adventure; but what for death, the realms of strife, to perish the first touch? We find for riddles, this inner person, pointing towards infinity; to read for signs, to hear for growls, the belly of the beast; where dungeons walk, to claim for freedom, to broach insanity; but hawk this trail, to read of love, hampered by reality: the days through nights, bathed in beige, living in-between; to float for seconds, that infinite chase, to skate through the what ifs. I see for tides, the living of souls, as grave as sudden anger; where love is hassled, to see for mazes, the wealth of a shattered outcome; but oh for embers, flaming in glory, the ache of this prose. It came as surprise, the sudden bursts, featured in mania; to love a stranger, even a familiar soul, boxed within a mind; in which is madness, the girth of hertz, as stunned as sudden enlightenment; so more to caution, to fathom waves, to discern the times. 

Hi Love III

Oh the mercy, forever we glide, the fire of Spirit; and oh to love you, a gentle swan, abiding in a kingdom. The day is love, the fever of parties—that spark divine. I venture left, to rescue right, filled with contempt; for years were hay-fever, this spiritual marking, to crawl to glory. It’s connected barely, to reach the intellect, a stickler for rules; but see the purpose, to love you wordly, and love you spiritly, to master the friction; for this is you, a young swan, even a lady, to watch the reputation; for pain is near, to set up traps, to ruin persona; so fly with grace, to ponder outcomes, to know for harmony; else to perish, the plight of nonsense, to learn to hate—those like men, where contempt builds, to devastate a mirror; but more to love, the shadowed wave, to scream in unison.     I hear the petition, to want for Xanadu, where reality haunts; but this is life, the chief of kingdoms, where spirit fluctuates in desires; and oh the mercy, to meet for eyes, to do it rightly; where some pledge, a bit more ecstatically, to cause for caution; so flee the lies, the deepest deceit, to operate in truths; else to perish, to hate all men, to repeat a bloody cycle.     I love you breathing, free of agony, streaming through portals; to see for glory, that subtle spot, to realize the divine; but know the emphatic, to caution the soul, to feel the webs.     You’ll never read it, to know for sects, to finally read it; where words morph, to claim a psyche, to sort through the minutia.     It’s very clear: “You can have certain thoughts; and nothing more”; where this is madness, to favor pain, in which the truth causes rain. It’s quite for crazy, to live the vex—to hate for resistance; but why believe, that thing—that doesn’t carry itself.       

Happy Valentine’s II

it’s morning love, to shift through feelings, as warm as cider; there’s such as radiance, the scents of love, to tackle the subconscious, to flutter with butterflies. why have i loved you: the ocean’s ridge, the skies’ hills, the valley’s rivers? i hold us in a thought, where tentacles cleave—to hours fatelike; i perish the magnitude, of divine humans, building a fortress—in the exospheres: the challenge of love—to soar a miracle—bruised by existence. oh the mysticism—ever to feel you, parted by miles: the realms of love, to suddenly shiver, as fluid as chai tea. the forest in evergreen, a cave of studies, an oasis travelled; to touch the tides, to wrestle the waves, seeping into the seas. life is knitted memoirs, the drifting of kites, the asphalt of trekking trails; we chime like roses, to lilt like lilies, to dance like daisies; for this is love, a tear for the garden, where a dragon sleeps; for love heals, to exchange gifts, to share a poem: the here for hearts, the now for fevers, our lives a puzzle with keys.

i adore such favor—bestowed upon love, as fated as evolution; the rock of us, the sediments of traits, the roots of character; to float so freely, a maze for surprises, to put forth such effort; to see for love, a small chateau, a pond of petals; where love is fervent, threaded in freedoms, to assure the length of life. oh for kingdoms, akin to ours, the ships that met at high peaks. the choir is singing, the liturgy is flaming, our tenets are speaking; to pardon morning moodiness, to bathe the tension, to scramble eggs with turkey sausages; for this is love, through ripples that flourish, to carry a modicum of pain; to see it for response, this riddle of lives, our very nature. 

Happy Valentine’s

I love you—the unchanging sun—as brilliant as forest rain; I pull for heart—the shiftless motion, filled with Valentine’s; our souls—christened in baptism—to leap the holy sacrament. We change with force—the years to flourish, gazing at sore ambitions. We talk to live—and die to feel, that churned in passions. To enter is such majesty, to laugh and soon return, to explode and shower; we bathe our love, from brows to toes, as close as Friends. The nights are silken, flaming in chants, the force of this heartcave. We charm with such responsibility—tackled at our spirits’ entrance; to float and fly, to flee and court, as coquettish as newlyweds. I love you—the unchanging sun, as fervent as light sockets: the deep of this soul, the ache of this grit, the bone of this flesh. Oh to retire, to stare at the years, articulated in brilliance; to love you and panic, for sore the turn, to see and churn; for oh the love, to feel your ache, the traits of our essence; for years were pain, to finally see, a saint to love. Keep us close—the morning to speak, longing for midnight; to sit in prayer, oh to vibrate, the width of his love. We found for passion, the crying waves, that torn asunder; where mothers died, and fathers hid, to lose so much of life; and then for us, the years to flourish, while rocking through turmoil. I see a mirror, the likeness of us, afraid to fail; oh the commands, the heart of humanity, to love you with sworn ambitions. The rain was us, to roll for eights, to backdoor a six and a two; to see for moons, the russet love, as brilliant as cyan tulips; the crave and yearn, the earth and burn, to drift through turns. I love you—the unchanging sun, as valiant as vatic knights.     

Some Sort of Realism Shadowed in Mystery

It’s near for crazy, ever to perish, touched with laughter; something maniacal—this innocent heartbeat, featured in her cheekbones. Is it us; a bit for stressed, the pain of joy, retreating into self? I ask and mourn—the subtle graves, hoping for the vocal waves; where hurt is abated, to skate through regions, surfing through blue blood. We stream to cherish, an inner vest, the

blueprints of eternity; and oh for soul rites, to camp the caves, sculpting upon stonewalls; where something is lethal, an inner trumpet, a mental armoire. I found a riddle, to know its face, the color of our lives; where stress is home, to lose it with discomfort, a bear to wean her cubs; and there afar, a stagnant river, chuckling with laughter. This for nature, to feel it so long, this

abstract level of concretes; to know surreal, to live and feel—the feeling of empty space; and still return, filled with glee, the anguish of its disappearance; to see and fly, as heavy as grief, to muster more than a smile. It’s a different degree, that inner thriving, to make sense of madness. We cry and mourn, to mold a few words, as merry as religious fervor; and what for us, as distant

as face value, as close as inward seasons; the scope of treasures, the tender mercy, the traces of anguish; where this is wealth, the shift and yearn, a fortress of reasoned thoughts; to glean with purpose, that open terrain, pressing towards mysticism. We love for mystery, to sin the esoteric—the misuse of powers; but truth is painted, on the walls of souls, to color consciousness; the welts and scars, the hurt and hell, the bliss and cycles. It’s true for hearts; the stop and go, the long goodbyes, to realize a particular need.   

It’s Clearly Surreal

It can’t be real—this cycle for ups and downs, engrossed in ‘motions; to feel the heaviest smile, to search for order—and find for clouds. Is it us, scraping concrete, gravel embedded knees? There’s a disconnection; one for sullen, with one for consciousness; while joy is present, a shadowed force, hampered by slight anguish. The soul is watching—filled with daffodils and mourning-tulips. I saw a dahlia—as beautiful as rain, turning trauma into art. I mocked in jest—ever that closer, to a penchant fondness. There’s pain to surface, where the heart trickles—into stately puddles; where more the vocals, an internal dialogue, to idealize a fervent pulling; in which are deaths, to breathe through lives, to buttress a sculptress. The heart is warm, to trek the agony, to feel for puppets; where mind is there, a part in a movie, as telic as hidden meaning; to

feature a self, a shatterproof soul, appalled by mannequins; and not to brag—to suffer the same—and strengthen a voice. The motion is vivid, even a temblor, the particles of sorrow; where minds drift, a continent of woes, to struggle through the mire; to challenge days, and conquer nights, to move the cycle; but what for heights, to channel for lows, to live this soulprint? I ask—the purpose of rhetoric, and rarely for an answer; for the facts are known—to ski this mountain, picking at a padlock; to feel for passions, to feel for flats, to feel for elation. The soul is turning, to awaken a sentence, to tug an inner kingdom; where a puppeteer lives, a grand piano, and a screaming violin; for none to see, but all to feel—this consuming beauty; but it can’t be real—this cycle for ups and downs, engrossed in ‘motions.     

To Expect for Unreal

He’s a bit confused, to see her broken; and such a strong woman. We take her for granted, the flare of fevers, to ignore the conductor; where a maestro glares; and filled with panic, to encounter such strength; but this for burden, to crave humanity, the want for a type of weakness; if only to cuddle, if only to cry, the churn of an argument. We fix for love, to die for love, if love is perfect; so broken love—is shoveled loved, buried near a basement; so more the perfect love, to perish a cultured love, the extent of our silent love. She blossoms is pieces, the stem of charms, the dharma of life; to carry rain, the shedding of skin, that closer a stranger.

She’s a bit confused, to see him broken; and such a strong vessel. She took him for granted, to expect the best foot, despite the inner turmoil; in which is chaos, to claim for human, where she wants perfection. Oh the trauma-fields, to see her leaning—upon a shattered man; and both are grey, to stand for tall, whereat are secrets. He grips for strength, to please a gadfly, and often she feels the same. How to fly—a perfect attitude, permitted no other feeling; it’s truly a scandal, even a masquerade, where the banquet is for two; and strangers met, with a golden child, jealous of such affection; for its inner power, both true and pure, and something she searches for.    

Dreams Threaded With Pins

We castle and chat, to live this love, to step into arenas; and oh the war, to slay a lion, as crucial as a heartbeat. I loved her eyes, the ineffable, to speak regardless; for purple the retinas, and beige the marbles, to flicker upon turquoise eyelashes. I write and feel her, a sudden volt, to vibrate consciousness; wherefore her mind, as much a genotype, seeping through sub-souls; whereat as precious, a genuine swan, leaping into battle. We fight the fever, to shift through likes, to discount the inner screams; for this is life, to ignore and flee, turning towards asylums.

I loved her at pace, to drop a century, as threshed as grains; and gods heard, the call of the goddess, a furnace through a dream; the sculpture, and scenes, to filter through touch; to see it and cry, a soul beyond reason, screaming and losing for all. It’s quite simple, to leave a father, for cracking under pressure, even the drugs; for life is easy, the sailing of seas, to disregard the hard times. Oh for centuries, to give for all, to love a broken spouse, and lose a broken spouse.

The tears are swelling, to see for culture, to seek merely the sex; and then for friends, to hope for perfect, the scope of insanity; and then another, to address the same, and what a cycle!

He’s now jaded, to see a current, the currency of love. We auction sex; and some a bit freely, to expect the grand-canyon; where life is perfect, and still for ventures, to expect loyalty. I cry the nightmare, to hope for beauty, something beyond the lens of surface; something cordial, for something slow, for something magnificent; indeed for dreams!  

In Respect to Experiences

Suddenly the freedom, to die the courage, for leaping dungeons; for I couldn’t love her, the feeling of tensions, clogging his throat; and more to love her, the wrench of insanity, to leave behind casualties.     We perish blindly, a wreckage of truths, to drain a heartbeat.

I loved her warmly, to never save face, the grace of her blue blood; we trekked a forest, to kiss the doves, to hold the geese; to feel for wings, the flight of scars, as driven as miracles.

It was ever the lights, a city of bulbs, to party so freely; and freely we flew, to tiptoe canyons, to circle eternity; where claims were carved, and bars were shattered, to return to broken squares. 

How to flourish, an enemy of humanity, scarring both man and child; I ask, to float through realities, to see it crookedly, if only to reckon. It’s quite abusive, the length and wave, a detrimental sketch; where pigeons cry, to see and perish, and culprits flourish; but this is life, to

love through deaths, the art of amazing—the skies of trauma;

but heart to beauty, to feel and see not—the winds, the feathers, the inner waters; to fly in stillness, ever that closer, to share a moment; for this is life, even fiction, as tangible as a heartcave; and soul to keys, even keys to soul, the earth, the love, the desire to fly.   

To Force through Feelings

At once it’s real—this inner secrecy, respected upon tables; where privacy leaks, a source of passion, to ink our names; the madness of it, shifted through space, to land the golden trestle; in which is life, for finally free, a screen at a cinema; where utterance gives, a wealth of feedback, to watch us as we play pretend; and oh the stress-pack, to permeate a gut, to scream the corners; where hell is motive, to clear debris, as bold as hesitation.

I’ve spoken vaguely, the light of infinity, scraping and scrolling manuscripts; to shift the sadness, this feeling of permanence, to know impermanence; and woebegone, the thriving soul, a pitcher of sulfur; so how for claims, to utter change, to vision a sore return; indeed the magic, to break away, if only but a moment; but still the permanence, despite the vacations, as brief as a tuna salad; where pain breaks free, to speak the language, of wailing castles.

I speak to swans, both great and young, a series of complications; to perish and live, to notice the seldom, as alive as moments; where heaven is brief, a forward chase, to catch a net of mercy; in which is art, the script of life, a fraction of our mission; and indeed the light, falling to achieve, the opposite of expectation. I hope she breathes—fully satiated, enlove with decisions; else for pain, a dead position, for those that never change; while worlds suffer, the pain of the changeless, staring at future diamonds; so more to life, the strife of motion, to feel it and grow forwardly.     

I Thought of You

I hear it, the such of particles, screaming the rain; it’s rarely intention, to cause for panic, else for conscienceness. I know of you, a giant in the kingdom, to share with but a few; and I know of you, a secret baptism, helping where others failed.     What for life, the constant struggle, to wrestle an inner god; for it’s more the struggle—for grit and glory, to feel a mistype. Oh the metaphors, to speak the esoteric, a simile near the bridge. I barely run it, to feel for pressure, a need to rev the Lord’s engine; and there you stand, with a precious few, and friends of humanity. Was it us; to land in glory, the story of a manuscript; where only gods, could channel ghosts, to soar like whales? I questioned much, even moral structure, to realize self; to perish slightly, a dolphin’s ache, flipping beneath the waves; and this is love, a different grit, to wish for blessings—the scope and brains, the sight and flame, to feel a volt. Is it evidence, this deep conundrum, to type and suddenly feel?—where pain is segue, and joy is compensation, to ask your true names.  I heard you—in silence, to produce an album, that something recording our thoughts; it’s truly passion, this inner maze, to converse with entities; and yes it frightens, this love and grain, to meet you eye to eye; but this is love, a human race, to chase the demons; indeed a trope, for deep mechanics, to worry for children; and earth heard, to portal a light, swaying through charm and vengeance. We never would, to scare for thoughts—that entertain self; that inner beast, probing self, that closer to a mirror; and life be told, the waves of angst, to court a moment of clarity.   

Through an Outward Forest of Trials

What turns the soul, Love; Is it beauty—the full measure; for I imagine the complex, seated at a furnace, chiming with ghosts; but what for beauty, in all of its grandness, surfing through perceptions: so chase a goal, where the countenance dwells, and filled with lights. I often see, if but a glimpse, wrestling the restless; to soar the prose, through multiple levels, to wonder of our gaze; to churn concentration, ever to apply self, grieving the inhumanity. There’s a subtle curse, to plague conception, to enter into madness; so we guide life, to choose breath, the extent of our love; where voices measure, the future scope, molded through influence: a mother blesses, where a sister honors, and father consecrates. It’s painted vividly, where the curse is on us, to garner a treasure. We’re known to fly, to grip for moments, engulfed in Spirit; the looming waves, the inner caves, to dig a bit deeper; so know for love, the wealth and woes, to culture an inner self; in fact to life, chase a goal, to build a fortress. It’s ever us, and ever them, attempting to skyscrape; where pain is chi, an inward vehicle, to speak about truths. It’s an introduction, the flux of living, a part of heritage; to float through zones, to know for joys, to cherish beauty. Some may hassle—the inner web, to point towards their vision; and me the same, to ask of Light, the breath of this Spark; but nevertheless, chase that thing, which gives life, to imbue the makings of hands; to soar the lands, to soar the prose, to outsoar one’s visions; to accomplish through spurts, the call of destiny, to enhance humanity; to be free, the feeling of purpose, churned by the study—of life and death, that inner engine, to scope through experience—the will of gleaning, the hope of love, the heart as realized.