I
thought for heaven, a zero waist, to mourn the fallen; we painted purple, the
grief of royalty, to feel for sluggish. The wine is vocal, the soul for
untamed, to chatter at a wall. Is it grand: the pier of failures; the feel of
righteous; the filter of treasures? I ask—torn asunder, to parachute through
thorns. What for thoughts, the angst of me, to scorn for justice? We sit to
die, screaming at sorrow, feigning the right path; where hell is vivid, a
reflexive mirror, to ignore the images; whereat is passion, the valley of errors,
as opposed to wittiness; for only our case, to strangle the breath, as cultured
as self-interest.
I
measure the nights, to shift resilience, the minds of academia; we drift to see
it, at odds with reason, to strive for secrets; where tomorrow wails, the call
of hiding, to nurture the pegs.
Stress
to us, the fruits of madness, despite satori—and fallin’ volts, to rift the
silence, to ponder confession—where pain is shunned, to never for sight, to
build a fortress—in which is struggle, to maintain secrets, unless to crumble.
I’ve
said nothing, to blinded eyes, content with deadly visions; else to seek, the
full redemption, striking from caves, to settle upon verdant gardens.
Is
it hopeless—to ask forgiveness, where a soul is blemished? Its high moon, the
tides to class, to sculpture invisible; in which is madness, to crash a
thought, to grip for liquor; whereat for anxious, to hope not then, where
choices are void; so wait not the last minute, where a swan is grown, fending
through life; for gray the texture, to ask for why, spinning through seasons.
My
dearest, Love—the veil is slipping, to warrant for keen eyes—the choice of
pain, the rain of sorrow, to cipher through minutia; so be not deceived, where
love is uttered, to see for trauma; but know for essence, to try and fail,
where parents are dripping; and dip the crevice, to build a home, to listen and
faint. It’s truly control, to lose and perish, to wonder for why.
So
do forgive, the heartbeat of guile, where parents feel right—and streaming this
death, the ache of passions, to grip for koans; in which to stand, as young as
wealth, the kef of terror.
