Outrun the Rivers That Fall

It couldn’t be real, as consecrated souls, to lose so dearly; but ever for truth, this vast echo, dancing forbidden lights; where something hassles, a mental fragment, to still believe—the ocean waves, the manikin postures, that too far distant memory. It’s even you, a swan turned lady, where the CD skips; for oh the nights, and oh this life, the constant metaphors; to see the anguish, to relish in a smile, the aches and bruises. We escape to enter; so cherish your life; where the mind is friendly; else to stumble, at war with self, grieving our presence. The days are young—stressing after stars, and sullen acquaintances. Oh the richness, even the oddness, a bit ill-equipped; for the years passed, lost in public solitary, to enter the world; where cultures clash, to feel for captive, those twilight years. We rarely see it—the skyward scars, to forsake a fortune—to perish a legacy; where tears fell, to water the tulips, to fertilize soil. Oh the darkness, to share with souls, this mind—this demon—this something!     I’m finding more—that thoughts protrude, to peek through features; and oh the tyranny, to trek through hells, to finally exit limbo; and caves are walking, to embody humans, the richest possessions; to fever the dead, to hear the screams, walking through hallways; to see for lamps and lanterns and lighters—this brilliant light, favored in tears, to rescue the heart-pearl.     We speak of life, even the mysteries, to reach for that kiss; and time be gentle, to court for souls, as delicate as wet grass; for this is heart, to fever—a frantic family.     Oh to reach it, forever that chase, where humans must worship; for this is soul, a telic design, to breathe our own mirrors.

It was a cold winter, to lose a friend, wrapped in war-scars; oh for mental, that seesaw nausea, to vomit upon sand.     It was a cold winter, to bombard a stranger, to frighten a family.     The shame protrudes, to land in mire, to reach the confusion; but oh the lights, flashing through darkness, to guide the intellect.     It couldn’t be, over a decade, peering at three pages; but oh it is, the purple stars, to befall a soul; where if not love, than not child, even a spaceship trial.     I see for madness, the texture of pudding, to disregard life; where souls are yearning, splayed upon concrete, trekking through echoes.     Oh the terror, the blackish ponds, and burgundy eye-shields.     It wasn’t life, to finally breathe, to hear the definition; and it wasn’t love, to finally feel, to hear the association. We piecemeal, a host of feelings, to become a lexicon; otherwise, the days are blurry, the nights are frantic, and we grope restlessly.     I knew you in A.D., to give you wisdom, where you taught the gods; and now the years, fractured by pain—and we play pretend; for its ever right, if I can’t see, to live the shadow; and it’s ever right, if I can’t feel, to kill a soul.     I await the laughs, to see it for money, and ever taught that way; but this is life, a beating heartache, to outweigh injustice.     We paint it grayly, to find it in beige, to witness a miracle; where hell comes forth, to control a soul, those sky-blue threats; and this is life, to cabinet a scar, where minds are surfing Hades; and something called, to pop the balloon, to see us reaching—and ever a parachute, to take this journey, the hope for safety; and oh the faith, to race the forest, to outrun the rivers.