Such
is raving beauty—the screams of complex joys, bottled in a slight agony; the
anguish of such beauty—the using and abusing—that jaded wealth of visions. The
mental palms, pleading through sandstorms, to arrive at beauty; it’s never this
light—forever that rite, skating through addictions. Oh the vanity—the sheer
entitlement, to feel utter seclusion; to wrestle principalities, plus
provisions, to love distant from one’s body; else a different love, ever to
wonder, the depth of physical beauty—the impact and wavelength, gripping and
groping motives, that closer to authenticity; the lights and cameras, flashing
through membranes, to want for desires; to chase after rainbows, to find and
rest, to feel for restless; it’s constant excitement, the expedient joys, to
ride the ultimate sky; else for normal, a sullen poet, probing the inner
village—and scraping feelings—off acrylic paint, molding an inner mural; for oh
the beauty, to want it with mercy, but dearly unseen; else for sight, and
psychic streetlights, floating through city graves; but more the love, the
deepest maturity, to exit the chase; to see for sights, the scope of beauty, pausing
to nibble a petal. Oh the beauty, to balance life, as beautiful as wise; to
seek eternal life, through music and art, or dance and literature; but oh the
beauty, tugged for pulling, the years of life, to see and withdraw; for oh the
beauty, if held hostage, drivels according to prunes; so more the beauty, to
maneuver the madness, to live the essence of dreams; else for beauty, an inner
wedge, for torn asunder; but how for beauty, a complex world, prying the privy
of beauty; the inner cameras, the grandiose, praised and polished through
rawness; but more the beauty, this glorious beauty, to preserve such innocent beauty.
