The
rapture of a heartbeat, and skipping waves, to shift an attitude; where borders
are crossed, to jut a soul, to tiptoe the boundaries; and we love for this, to
set sight for this, a bit behind schedule. Life is laid bare, as naked as
jackals—the warmth of personality; to see for genuine, the ache of
characteristics, to flee a perfect square. I’m quite for hesitant, to utter
love, where the operation is by nature; the flowing beam, that stream of
persons, easily misidentified; where rapture are colors, to grog for insights,
or pace a tornado. The course is heavy, the full absorption, to caravan an
inner god. I knew us—as phrenic friends, the meta of our furnace; to see it storming, the inward wave, to feel
the eczema rising. There’re cloudy features, for internal smaze, to know that
it doesn’t matter; for we court for love, to find a level, as cryptic as the
volume of heartbeats; to drift the chakras, to ponder Buddha, or even Krishna;
where yoga thrives, a line in the skies’ sphere, tripping the fall of hertz. I
love it plainly, this inner songbird, to utter a name; and couldn’t feel it,
since a certain burst, to wonder of why. It now shifts, to gesture intensity,
to croon for inner harmony; such is flux, to feel that volt, where tentacles
cleave. The days are epic, as epoch as swamis, to intercut and feature a whole
picture.
Was it real—this unreal feeling, to
finally empathize; indeed the days, a small apocalypse, free of claret wines;
to petition a Sabbath, if much the distance, as ontic as mathematics; where
such is laughing, to remember a feeling, as intense as marriage vowels; to flee
and fly, if only a moment, as vatic as Elijah; where pain trickles, even for
lotic, as melic as Ethiopia.
