What
if the sky fell, right into a soul, for a feyic harvest; I’m dizzy to think it,
as dusty as autumn, to wrestle this full feeling;
but something is empty, the few for the many, as frantic as composure; for
something bounces, to chisel the in-betweens, a feeling left helpless; but we
live it lively, this melodic mystery, as precious as a daffodil. We feature as
nightfall, this humble nature, thwarted by turmoil; to float so freely, grinded
in cameo, this flux of a life. What could it be—this rhapsodic bliss, sprinkled
in miseries; and how to find, this inner maze, where keys speak the language?
It couldn’t be, but so incumbent, to croon our own fortress. It’s the lack of
knowing, the dearth of hearing, that shatters our inward souls; and plus the
margins, this feeling gray, a vault of orgasmic feelings; they push and pull,
to challenge rapture, even for unsteady. It’s a must to reason, through every
feeling, unless for nocuous; else to perish, those inner valleys, as boundless
as the exospheres; but more to closer, to wander through whys—of something so vague; and that is, how for us, that outward
determinant; thus a partial possession, or even eternal, relied upon for
actions. I’m lost for thoughts, to want for nature, this boundless force; else
to clamor, through various caves, extracting but a fraction; but this is true,
despite the deepness, we extract but pebbles—of this vast knowing; or more to
heart, our dreamy minds, challenged at every thought. The strings are ringing,
too penchant for singing, and affection is internal; for we must perceive, in
order to feel, although the phenomenon is upon us; else for madness, to
interpret feelings, aside from feeling.
