Broken Schematic

It’s existential—this distraction, to pull at that hour—to die sable eyes, and violet hopes, a psyche of battleships. I feel marooned, by one to love, this myth of the moment. It tortures the life—when sex is mere joy, as opposed to attachments; and died this Sunday, such religious panic, to fly come heart-raptures; where pain is wings, the honor of this gift, a swan as thunder; to sketch the carpet, and sip French wine, those articles of sanity; where colour drips—into soulful hearts, to measure scruples; to die this life, and live this death, an existential resistance. We chime with grace, the face of stress, to wrestle inner demons; and god loves—the art of love, to pressure love; in which is treasure, to dart the mark, to settle the mishaps.  

It’s existential—this entrapment, to die at that hour—and live that moment, torn by angst, as clever as no-more; and I love her, this uneven number, to secern the magnitude; and I scold us, to push passed thought, to encounter satori; else the hurts—of mediocre thoughts, as infant as crayons; but this is life, to nestle with wants, to ignore facts; for this is comfort, where I is presidential, and us is mediocre. How for such loss, to hold such sulfur, to feel delight? It baffles the mind—this crooked lens, a masterpiece of antiques; where love is you, the product of life, to ask so much. It’s truly ideal, to ask the absent, for something we can’t give; such as self, to want for vengeance, as opposed to your heartbeat.