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.