Upon
a daffodil, a tear trickles, a private dialogue. I die—semi-sculpted—this inner
design. The puppet is shatterproof, a lurid delusion, needed to chisel through.
There’s inner madness; the castle is foggy; a mannequin breathes. Such is
penchant joy: the digging of self; those inward temblors; but the
heartstring—is webbed in petals, mourning teatime. There’s a padlock—requiring
three keys, to shed the surface. Wherefrom is peace; and would I love it; to
live as if absent? Chi has become us; an inner tarot reading, filtered through
psychic prose. While young—we drank the poison, to feel affection, as dreamy as
teenagers. Oh the outcome:—to spin through dungeons, to arrive in parts,
searching for segments! Beauty was consumed; the angst of this station, to
carry without limits: the fiery trials, burdened by flesh, to tiptoe the
boundless. I see her eyes, filled with turmoil, a melody reaching. Our past—so
haunted—wrought in melancholy! “Become a lyric”—I heard—and desperate to become
this lyric; but deep the pit, a bit lethargic, to speak in a monotone; unless
for conscious, to hide in public, the rhapsody of turmoil. The complex is
riddled: a rapture for margins, a maze overtaken. I see the shores, to raid the
trees, to master the forest; but heavy the trails, to languish softly, a
picture in cameo. Imagine the image—of a thriving person, knitting heartaches.
The path was paved—as unique to souls, to fathom our own objective; to sort for
order, and riddle the sphinx, the deepest conundrum; else to fumble, the final
result, to grapple for the starting line. If to hear the message, in this
complex jungle, rising at risk; if to overcome, to seek the signature, that
closer to deadlines!
