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.
