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.
