Mystic Cave

It requires application; this thing about curious names; this address, featured in humans, as infused from within and without; this driven force, accustomed to energies, at one with mystery. How to have known you; so fervent a torch; justified in latter events? To distrust distance, becomes a wise insight, favored by experience. I knew about you through timing—the moment of events, as to have occurred through timing. Experience became unusual—to occur as a domain, where another struck the same fuse. You’re two for nature; so mental for composure, whereas inquiry became curious; so much a flame, an encrypted memoir, this study of force as real—even an intelligence, a psyche of spirits, channeled, and thereby, to dismantle distance. We seek cause and effect; so ready to correlate timing, so distant the source, so confused by human participation. The two desire interaction; in fever as the moment; to stir forces into a frenzy. It would be the distance—as so close our breath, at one with believing anonymity; so challenged within; so vital a mechanism; as utilized through commission. I knew about us through timing; where something dissipated, as to rise in fury, where elsewhere something increased. How to have known you—by measure the force—a new person—a new experience; to sit in loneness, as sudden reception, to wander experience! You’re three for nature—so gifted this travel, to affect by mere agitation; to arouse for anger, that inner dwelling, where one murmurs an incantation. You’re four in nature—to cause for stammering, as if besieged with the shakes; so polite and earnest, to stir a kingdom, as entrenched in studies.

I know not of you, aside for hunches, where evidence begins to compound knowledge. There’s Spirit for certain—the formation of Chi—plus the history of ghosts; but something stirs by human touch, the revving of souls, fortified in intensities; as to offset,—influence, and alter occurrences. How to have known you, as a one to one correlation, the source of cause to effect?—the source of said activity? I’ve painted a corner—given credence to hunches, where in reality, timing is benefitted through doubt. For example: if two happen upon an encounter, to soon depart, where thereafter, the one is struck with infusion, it becomes natural to become curious of the other person. If this becomes a sequence of events, the one has more than a mere hunch, the one has the appearance of a cause to an effect; but never stated as actual fact. This is  hidden knowledge—founded on internal mechanisms, where actuality is built upon proximity. Our inquiry expands beyond energy—where something lives within, as moved and manipulated by that that lives in another person. This too is hidden within, as known within, as mused upon by the intellect, as even spiritual wisdom; but how to vet said thoughts? 

Ghosts

Oh for memories, as one of tears, shifting in a cradle; to develop this voice, as living in mother, a nine month sabbatical; to then return, as high as particles, to grip the wrists of a child; as to warn of ghosts, the coldest shivers, in turn the mystery; for it couldn’t exist, to believe the apparition, as churning through centuries; from soul to soul, as heritage and ancestor, as disguised in a woman’s bosom; for this was mother, a hundred pages in, to realize the texture; to nearly escape, this snowfield furnace, as to extract a ghost; but what of prodigies, as sister to perish, as if stillborn; the neck wrapped, the son commissioned, as a second coming. I carry this ghost, as infused by ghosts, a woman to know our secrets; as calm as spirits, to determine the outcome, as one familiar with cults. Laughter has perished. The storms are cyclical; as peace is but a moment. Mother was taught, as grandmother’s pupil, where aunty was well advanced; as to meet this spirit, where ritual is form, to dabble in mixed magic; to stand in presence, the midnight sun, as glowing in dungeons; for more the reasons, for believing the cultics, as in believing in concretes; but both our lives, as slanted as yogis’, to participate in pushing madness; as ever this brink, to summons the Ghost, as a woman engages witchcraft, ever the eyes of one possessed; to carry this fuse, as moving through grays, as from darks to lights; as in moving elements, to venture winds, that nearer the fire forces; to imbue the human, as supernatural, to maximize powers; for this was mother, a reflection of woman, as to intoxicate ghosts; where to pause is fiction, one opened to pressures, as for awakening phantoms.     

Funeral of Conscious

If I hold canvas, to paint mystics, as to live this life, would love blossom; if I die—to scold untruth, to live it by skies, would love blossom? We spoke a fever, this casual myth, as if unreal. It’s a faint mirage, to signal truths, as gifted for anguish; that fatal affliction, to arise as gems, our souls a passage through arts; to live as if born, to hold composure, to exchange livers. We now exist—as picture to frame, as cloud to sky. There’s but one voice, to permeate the lonely, to undergo the storm. I loved in secret, to infuse a swan, a generation of mystics; as if reborn, as filled with joys, as the night of our appearance. Its close the fame, a woman of patience, to sculpt a thousand tears; or live a long nose, to mimic destruction, as one nigh the edge; or cry this vest, as years of acid, to morph into a queen; for it couldn’t be, the long goodbyes, followed by volts, extinguished as a moment; to flit through flights, a second for drinking, as patent this venture; as to imagine love, a half filled balloon, to know of never. We’re far too young, as gripping chaos, this gentle catastrophe; where I’m far too old, as blinking with angst, for loving a phantom. The tides churn, the ocean gasps, there’s a funeral for the living. I’m lost this source, the riddles of knowledge, to carry the future; as dying to live, as living to die, this mission of men; as broken at lights, to woo a dream, to chase a mirage. Oh the love, to hear for woes, the throes of a generation; but what is life—as shielded from eyes, the weariest forests. It mustn’t be, this torn address, to drape in elegance; as not to feel, the scent of pain, graphed through crevices; as if to live, while something dies, the truths of our encounters.        

As In Reach to Grip the Centers

This vision of mystic manics, to feature as psychotics, a group of legends; to skip a spectrum, forever a fever, as mother’s first born; the cries of living, the sins of secrets, as skeptic as soldiers. We loved a mayfly, nearly terrified, to kiss her at first glance. Oh for magnitude, as rude, as precious, as sexuality; to cry the skies, as torn asunder, to love her one last cry. Its sheer deception, as honest as broken laws, to claw, as to burn, this woman’s aura; for great the hearts, parted near oceans, as streaming through rivers. He loved a vision, as sorted through illusions, the curse of his dreams; to chime through winds, as to dance through pains, a psych at his mind-bed; where crime was art, the love of dying, the joy of resurrection. They couldn’t but see, a room of prodigies, as furious this kingdom. We went for deeper, the measure of laughter, as to repent the bliss; as forever this sky blue, pushing further, to wreck the atmosphere. He held her in kef, the death of innocence, to see so many ghosts; as heartless the night, as queen the sun, screaming at sirens. She knew the unknown, to pass each challenge, to morph as a sphinx. Oh the sighs, sitting at stations, as mystic manics. It couldn’t be true, over a thousand souls, featured in quiet zones; to charge a soul, as sick at sorcery, climbing invisible trees; to love in private, as a public affair, laughing while cursing. Its liquor—stressed with pills, for a thousand moods; to feature a sickness, while aiding souls, as to build a fortress. The thrill is chasing, to finally retreat, as one defeated by fate; as to die this thesis, as fuchsia dreams, to dissipate in smaze.  

Gnaw Upon Sugarcane

We wonder of the prophecy; as forsaken to doubt; as to witness this manifestation. Of course to love, else demented, spinning through jealousies. We’re the pressures, to impress a ghost, that closer to triumph; but how to love us—our part a series of prose, as pride becomes vicious. We took to storms, as mostly absent—from time to time; to embrace mystery, this mystic chase, enchanted partly. I imagine pain, despite the joy, tugging on a baby girl; where this is life, to see the self, as everything is sacrifice. We speak in codes, codified in prayers, as if invisible; but yes to see, this woman’s phantom, screeching as to flourish. I’ve chosen this heart, the pressure of prophecy, to announce it to a classroom; where pain is watching, to label this child, as to forget this inquiry. We speak rarely, this inner love, for one adapted as a stranger; to tell this story, the sorrows of goodbye, when hello was never mentioned. We’re left with dreams, as many the features, to remember a psychotic witness. Was it us, to nigh a brain, to extract sensations? In turn it was, to see for measures, the changing of neighboring minds—and speak it plainly, the effects of psychoses—upon neighboring souls; to see it at unawares, as operating freely—the subject as distracted; but more the love, as never to flourish, a symbol upon a wish; as to perish thrice, this life of dungeons, to rupture control. We pardon the curse, as filled with jewels, to love the evidence; but it couldn’t be, this hell of mercies, to wonder for more; as if a dream, this grand composure, to stress a soulmate; so never this dream, as ever this dream, a fool in a cabinet; to flourish through challenges, as great the walls, to see it shatter, years after love.      

Woman of Power

She lives as one spinning; but so alive, courted by suitors. Suits amaze her, as clouded by glory, to exhibit inhibitions; and so gray, the wildest chair, as composed as the military. He that knows her knows little; but ever for psychotics, this lavish woman, to sweat on contact. We featured a film, but ever in private, this woman of a million dollar gown. To see her laugh, as something rare, this goddess for business; as to climax on commission, this dream as cold as men, this force gnawing into flesh. It couldn’t but live, this inner ambition, this febrile drive. I called her heartless. She asked to meet me, as screaming, You would never know, as to never see, bent on psychoses. I grabbed an arm, as she drew closer, eyes as wet as ocean walls. “To see me,” she yelled! The future was grim, to see her astride, as powerful as mystics—but never a god, this woman of grays, as ever this power; for faith is science, as science is faith, a book of three thousand pages. I dare utter it not—this thing of love, as deemed as emotion; to cry it regardless, to hear the measure, of a deeper love. She waxes with grace, through hellish tours, to stand as if life is grand. I push to pull, to gnaw to wrestle, to yank as tore through prayers. Oh to see it, this winter in summer, the clouds as turquoise ribbons. She grabbed a finger, to suck the poison, on muddy sandbanks. I knew the power, to love the power, to alter perception. This love withdrew, to torture the weekend, as to return on Monday. I took for courage, to live it obscene, a session pulling thorns. She ran for office, sporting an ancient bracelet, executing elocution. The months are cruel, this aloof fever, as wild as prostitutes, as fervent as religion. I grabbed a star; she grabbed a poet; the two are twisted in truths; for never a lie, and ever a lie, to live it like fools.      

House of Cards

We loved as passion—this fatal addiction, as unborn pagans; to phantom this life, as more deceit, a series on a screen. We favored injustice, to claim perfection, as naked this fever; to find us there, professing loveless, as professing love. Say it not—to harness this vest, a bullet as a tear; to stir wild oats, to whittle wild oak, as two that far from love. It’s the First Lady, as driven to sin, pleading for Vice Presidency. It’s a southern slur, to drag a soul, the feathers of hell. We couldn’t find us, as near as follicles, searching the great gulf; as chasm to soul, a spinning tsunami, a Buddhist in a hut; to reckon the ceilings, a nun nearby, as to give a secret. We’re soon naïve, as if the holy isn’t lustful. I paid attention, to feature a dream, an office filled with power; a love for science, as eye to eye, to court for marriage. What was given, aside for sinning, as given prior; for this is life, to expect so much, for something given freely; it mustn’t be, this sheer affect, to repeat a cycle. We disappear—as fading phantoms, to reappear—as sainted ghosts. Reason is so lonely, amongst the crowd, as they favor a doormat. The feet were wiped, where eyes held fury, as to finally explode; as earth shifted, the cosmos drifting, a woman near a star. We wanted more, despite the lovers, to get things in order; to live it kindly, to converse the worse subjects, to then pass out. Where was life—as bold as death, to expect loyalty? We must to live it, to ask abuse, for one to falter—as a forbidden legend, where years were bland, as to thirst for flavor; but couldn’t leave, as this is treason, as this is forbidden; to meet our own, to see the sickness, as confused by power.  

He Tasted Some Type of Love

Memories have life—as tokens have hate, as mother had venom. He needed a mind, distinct from hell, as one independent; to trust in love, as featured in memoirs, this soul of a psych. He knew for eyes, to cry this night, a vision speckled on a brain. Was it left or right, the silent goodbyes, as vocal as a soulprint? Earth has perished, streaming through words, as darkness for light. They speak of dreams, shadowed in melancholy, a woman his father’s age; to know for death, a professor’s tear, to pardon a psychologist. It couldn’t be real, as thrilled through fancy, to enrich a dying cycle. He thought it abstract, this life of jewels, as concrete as a fairytale; in which are days, splayed in pain, a father’s livid ghosts. He awoke a demon, a psychotic feature, as found this woman; to kneel by gut, a flood of introjects, to identify healing. Our art is heartless, a gown as segue, to enter with trepidation; but she dances, to become aloof, shaking with temblors; as to die for lies, as to crawl for wealth, a woman twice his wisdom. It couldn’t be real, as sex to a youngster, fully enchanted. We’ve felt for fevers, as dead as alive, to structure this balance; to lose this moment, wherewith is hell, to retreat from love. It wasn’t for it was, for darkness the breath, to taste this woman; but oh the tension, to avoid feelings, to win control; but this is life, to deceive conscious, as to act this part; where love breeds, a kingdom of fools, to single out one Raca. He couldn’t to breathe, this fire of flames, to touch this woman. She ached his pain, to cry his name, as fever to a furnace. Oh for art, to cross with motion, as bent towards destruction. They favor love, as hell to love, a canyon in a psyche. He cried as pain, this attic roach, to fumigate love; where grit was rage, a patent this life, as graves to a mystic.

But he couldn’t die, for music blasting, this web of deaths; as graphic through lights, to grip for thighs, teeth deep the flesh. He lied to love it, this woman’s dreams, as courted through hells. We see it alive, to die the love, as bent on fiction; and love wailed, as if to perish, bruised and dying. He fathomed beige, as gray as knitting, the motive of a child; for sheer his pleasure, for sheer her measure, as two alive for treatments. They blended fevers, asearch to finish, as two broken alive. It couldn’t be—this fatal kiss, this attractive death; to perish the increments, this German breath, as to collapse in arms; that shy of life, as satiated fools, as a gremlin to chocolate. He spoke of game, but so attached, to rub a silk suit. She laughed the love, fully enlove, to give it more. They broke ceilings—to sheets soaked, the drapes shattered. Oh for public eyes, to mend a wound, a suture to cloud reason. It couldn’t be love, to pass introjects, as one for medicines: the harsh hellos, the warm goodbyes, a woman soon to perish. Dear for God, the tides are censored—the earth is blank, and nothing but love; as torn asunder, the breaking oceans, as moist as a tight tornado. He stormed the grounds, as a parish torn, a priest madly enlove; to enter glory, as one afraid, to grip her throat. It couldn’t be, as sin to saints, to faint at climax. Oh for mercy, the chills to trickle, a man eye to eye; where God spoke, of man and rib, the two as helpmeets. It wasn’t us, to claim insane, tide torn to bone; and yes it was, the long sessions, to open a womb: the cries of never, the beats of favor, as to awaken in sweat. He loved her more, to distance from hell, as one gnawing a furnace; as she laughed aloud, and cried the same, an animal newly born.      

By Relation, as through Intuition

if I loved you, as to perish with you, as to flourish with you, would this suffice—as to carry infinity? we live to surrender. we love to surrender; to this breath, as life through loins, as to sacrifice minds. if I loved you, to plummet hell, as to give a diamond, would you conquer hell? I find us dancing, the greatest of sorrows, filled with rejuvenation; as to suffer joy, this fleeting breath, where things become mediocre. it’s our place, ever our place, to resuscitate life! the gods are jubilant, at play with souls, as in cruelty at first glance; wherewith is pushing, this calm torture, to unlock gods; where a goddess smiles, to select a son, to court a being; but if I loved you, to know this hidden you, would you conquer hell? a.m. brought vibration, even jolts, to electrify a soul. I type gently, every word a sorcerer, every dot a pain, every noun a Wiccan, even a Warlock. this inner kiss, as years of combat, to settle upon combat; for yearning becomes contrary, to a room of consensus, that being cringing through caves; “but what have we given, this life of wisdom, our novitiate to gods; you are found with insights, a friend of Adam, a friend of God.” it’s A = B, as B = C, ergo C = A; but as souls, we yen a greater depth, even a monk’s reach; where-as gods, faces are etched, into beating hearts; but if I loved you, this dying you, to rebuild us, would you conquer hell?—for love was gray, as beige as fading colors, as dim as clouded suns; where love flourished, this deceit of love, to enter, vibrate—to perish. I know not a soul, at war with freedom, as to court a mirage. I know not a soul, at war with love, as to forfeit love. rather eyes are blurry, rubbed through with pain, as to court this kismet love; but if I loved you, enough to sustain you, would you die to love us?      

Inner Hay Storm

This inner dying, the cries of life, his journal in blood; oh the fleece, soaked in crimson, this inner reflection. Oh the mirrors, cracked with gravel, as scraped with scribes. He couldn’t believe it, to lose a child, as vile as terrorists. The crime was done, to split his cranium, as for years of meditation; and mother died, as fried as Clinton, this living of sin. He couldn’t believe it, as sick as Satan, screaming, Redemption; and he couldn’t see it, his own reflection, as distorted as lust. Something took to give—this life of cobblestones, to proclaim the message; to perish the love, as sorted through science, to finally comprehend; and what neuroses, to center experience, as objective as the subject. He couldn’t but feel, the thrill of entrance, as captured in moments; oh the fierceness, painted in fury, as blurry as fire. He would shatter heaven, as to scurry hell, afloat a woman’s promise.     What for dreams, as what for futures, as to give our souls; as to die winning, as to grin for grit, as to love for features. He won the Pyrrhic victory, as to sin the loses, as crooked as straight; as feral the roads, buried in alleys, dodging bullets. The graph was short, left with little room, as to maneuver the politics. He channeled the message, as living alone, to confide in a public square. The reach suffers, as complaisant souls, an outdated textbook; as if kidnapped, watching the freest day, held hostage within; as nights churn, to distort images, as to say, It’s not like me. He felt for years, the deepest sighs, a vacuum as a dream; to hear for spirits, the whisper of the winds, this inner, Why; to soften a motive, as a glassy core, on the brink of splitting: a mind for a course, a teacher as a foe, a fever as a mentor.           

Jotted in Silence

He says it faintly—these inner hells—this angst of maneuvering; as mind must be occupied. He raptures a surface, as not to reveal, this inner mechanism. He wonders of others, to find his self, embedded in this web: the introjects, as blatant as disrespect, featured in a first voice. He wonders of others: that inner freedom, the deep silence, as in peaceful relaxation; but there’s a hunch, as favored as love, that others suffer with him: as inner abrasions, as inner frustration, where it approves rarely. What is It? It—is one’s inner self—that person, the one we negotiate with: this inner phantom, to change moods, as if fully agitated; wherewith are chills, and abrupt facial muscles, as if something leaped inwardly. It—came from afar, to make a home, especially in holy souls. He says it often, for barely a few, to wonder of others: what are they doing; are they breathing through self; is the weather different; for hell pressures, to join communion, a feature of the God he serves. It’s the darkness of light, as the light of darkness, revving trough a soulcave; as to enchant at first glance—this outward novice, into receiving gifts without giving; where this is havoc, this crooked bliss, as one indebted. He wonders of others, as for naked eyes, filled with lust; to crave for pleasures, as not to reckon, those deep hardships; as to repeat it, that time for again, to roam the valleys. He wonders of souls, that high the planets, locked down in secrets; as to endure cells, to rapture the core, looked upon as indifferent; but deep this secret, that inner reality, morphs into public squares. He couldn’t but perish, as by design, to grow as an image.     It’s been a warm winter, a frosty summer, as autumn was tears!     

     

He knows hell, and hell knows him. It’s a sick relation, founded on history, grounded in this mutual seeking; to understand God, as competition, as to punish the holy. He sees it, as vivid as chaos, to strike with vengeance; to challenge darkness, a part of himself, to deny the worst elements; but how for this, to pump in the good, where the bad hits the surface, to rupture the good; and then for war, this flavored self, at battle with features seeping out. It was never secret, this strong countenance, affronting likeminded souls. He earned it early, without forgiveness, to omit asking permission. It’s a Pauline character, this phantom’s force, to see as the apostles; for God heard, and watched for Joseph, an Egyptian slave. He wonders of others: that grand denial; that fevered screaming; the news throughout intuition; to favor certain parts, as if the others are dying, a cell confused by introjects; for why the madness, for one that yearns the good, seated in a chair of infusions; where darkness isn’t shy, to interrupt rituals, to increase heartwaves. He couldn’t but feel it: that shattered mirror, that rabid laughter, shadowed in the rudest gestures; to morph into power, as one known by the gods, as trailing Elijah. The riddle is there, as stated plainly, for eyes to receive; for they hear, but what have they heard; and they see, but what have they seen. It’s different for some: we live it, as to die through it, as to arise a new creature. He found for favor, to reap for hells, a cell away from demons. This couldn’t be life, seated in strife, as one loved by God; so what for reality, this feeble invite, where assertion rests quietly?       

Say Not

Tell me not love—as tossed to traffic, to induce such pain; and never lie, this grand gesture, the gravel of heartbeats; for what was earth, when hell was fervent, and what was hell! I love us distant, to chisel dreams, as fully delusional; where said delusion, forms illusions, to witness life as allusions. I carved a name, as gray as toxic, this deep seduction; and what for life, to meet by chance, as stilling a kiss. We’ve taken a plow, steady to look back, unfit for kingdoms. But tell me not love, as abused by love, a light protruding within; to cry this art, to portend this agony, to die in our laps; where tears are ruptures, to finger the keys, a piano as its maestro; to play as self, to summons Beethoven, to infuse Mozart. I died alone, crowded with peers, afraid to speak. Life was terror, a flood of embarrassments, why-fore, a tear strikes the surface? I love us paused in silence, aching in fury, grieving in balance; I love us breaking shifts, to ponder as friends, to love this image; I love us that other self, pulling at chi, thrumming through caves; oh to love us, as bent the horror, to love the breakthroughs. It’s crazy this reign, to sequence frequencies—but tell me not love, as to flourish that moment, as enlove-distorted, as crying, Bloody Jesus! Its highs that churn! Its lows that burn! Its hell to inform; and God to instruct! I fever through us, as chastised by life, as steering a catastrophe; but tell me not love—as featured in cinemas, this inward denial. We chime as beige, to search for sandy, alert to flaming blackholes; to drift within, as to scream of love, three generations craving; wherewith is passion, and sudden wails, to grip for guts. Say not of love—as to break a lung, as to defy the rounded graves.       

I Thought to Seek It

So much confusion—netted in features, as someone driven; as fuchsia petals, drift downstream, the organ of our souls. We made you a promise, that one incumbent—upon stems and bark. I felt to meander, the branches of a cloud, the florets of a star. I thought to live—this facial rapture, paused and chilly. I thought to feel, coiled in weeds, spoiled by the moment. I thought to push, unto a shattered vase, to drink the features. So much confusion, to label us heartless, as to spawn a tear; and so much pain, the spikes of midnights, the cranes of turmoil; and so much joy, to come in spurts, agitated by doubts. I thought the sober days, as it came to us, this brilliant lamp; to invade a cave, as to explode. I thought of ways, as gray as therapy, where one human judges another. I thought of rain, the tears of professors, the demons and angels grounded closely. I thought of psychs, as to frighten capacity, to see as one slanted—as to push passed that person, slanted on stable grounds, as one frantic for memoirs. There’s a safe, that closer the brains, as if to crack it open. I thought of dreams, wherefore, to mature, to become an inner force; whereto, that controversy, that omen, that paradox; in which a frame, captures a butterfly, to wish for fangs—as life the naïve, a thorn in a rib, a woman beyond reach; the capacity of politics, the graphics of chancing—upon a fading prayer. I thought to panic, to see myself, to touch such energy—and channel this line. I thought of you, as multiple persons, where it rubbed off;—to feature a ghost, upon your arrival, as one to do a favor. I’ve lost a filter, to gain a vest, unthreading a comforter—to see emotion, as loving the calm, to appear too serious.     

Rub The Ghost’s Cheek

The winds are speaking. They utter a silent language—as vocal as pushing, to stir the spirits. This is your day: that triumphant passage; that measure of success; as forthwith as new responsibilities. Mother drops a tear; to witness such growth; to partake in building personality.

The tales are old; the trials are new; life becomes a length of vividness. We grow adversities, likings, even temperaments: as to change in an instance, fevered as normal, at odds to define this feature. There’s a symbol, favored in a gift, as a cake is sliced. The in-betweens become clear. The heart leaps; granted this river; as close to self as skin.

We live a maze, from picture to picture, a mind filled with tableaus; to adjust as needed, to form ideals, to learn philosophies. Our journey is ever a journey; it never ends; we become masters, when skilled this journey; so desire the good, as one that knows, to distinguish clearly.

The winds are excited; to verse through souls; this fervent song. They celebrate triumph; your inner warrior; your adamant breath. We tell a story, of the brightest lights, when love flickers; we live a life, where grains morph, where patience becomes virtue. Let us give, ever the vocal mirror, to reflect our inner person; as one to soar, to snatch a fragment of skies, to pull the exospheres.

Attempt it—to live it; this inner passion, to master mind, as to alleviate angst; for this is love, as to share gifts, as to mold kingdoms. The road is darkened; so we light lanterns; as we trek through marshy lands, as one determined, to rub the Ghost’s cheek. 

Reason

I can’t but reason about reason: the sanded thought, to reap for clarity, as not to offend. Its powerful this light; the frightening word grand, that inclusive nature, as to gain approval. I can’t but reason about wisdom; for to fail spells a lack thereof; but to fail is the onset of wisdom: What is this conundrum? I can’t but reason about hatred; this exciting feeling, as to hurt self, where the unsaid runs freely. The heart pulsates; adrenaline is racing, as sweat trickles upon pavement. We rant and rave, to lose for all, where said hatred laughs; as both parties dwindle, into a tiny knot, lost in extremes; to then wonder about life: the sheer affliction, the constant misuse, the abuse of our minds; but this is ideal, where many suffer from nescience, at a loss for seeing the stumbling block. I can’t but reason about love; this electric charge, to have died to love, to have died to kill. Where is love so shallow; this type of maybe love, where I love you was barely loved? I know of few, where love is almighty, a kingdom unto itself. I thought to know about love, at such a young age, to fail to gain wisdom. I ached for love, to misknow love, as one ruined for love; but love is fair, as said of kindness, where love never injures; such as love—is poison, a misapprehension; so we study love, to carry love, as to receive love. I can’t but reason about trust; as words are weighed, as actions are monumental. It couldn’t be the unsaid; where one gives venom, but wishes not to receive it. This seems absurd; for we lead by example, where I treat one as I intend to be treated; else for chaos. If I yell—I’m an advocate of yelling; if I lie—I’m an advocate of lying; where if I love—I’m an advocate of trust—an advocate of love.   

Indulge in the arts; Live life as supernatural. (Swan)

Feel free to fly, welcomed as flying freely, a spectrum of the skies. Touch the forces, as green the revelations, as beige the interpretations. Hunt to live freely, as one free to fly, through ink, as through love. Life is conventicle, as said of religious, unwelcomed as mystical; for its unlawful—ever to believe, but laws are unformed; so we chat in silence, as to outcast the esoteric, for something is uniquely different; so more the mainstream, this supernal joy, to mold us as molded by souls. But oh the nectar, the grandest splendor, a countenance at full capacity; as diagnosed, the Spirit is wild, as to have read our history; whereas, the gifts, the secrets, the powers, are worthy of our inquiries. There’s a constellation, this inward chimney, filled with smaze, even soot; we climb in, scrub fiercely, as to witness the New Jerusalem; wherewith to articulate becomes a challenge; the gravity of misty matter, to conjure as unseen, as exposed in cryptic arts. There are truths stationed in solitary; to then return, as a pillar of the community; as seen aglow, as a friend of neurotransmitters, as alive sitting steadily. How to answer it; this probing question; that reach of chi, that reach of Spirit? We live a paradox; for it is what it isn’t; as one transfixed, marinating in images: from ground to Being, from soul to soul, from mind to heaven. It’s similar to the sudden affect, channeled by a dear friend, as to awaken concentration. The art is mystic, as to explain phenomena, where one soars filled with electric vibrations. We can’t but live it; as beyond thought, where thought has become a vehicle of said activity!    

Legends Spoke of This

The war is internal, a fury of thoughts, where one repeats itself. We practice no-thoughts, to hush thoughts, to hear thoughts. One is for the good, to the affliction of soul, to wrestle a secret; and there’s a slant, this holy belief, bundled in the recesses. Moods are altered. Perception is challenged. The music agitates.     We search a cave, this endless drug, colored by warfare. It lives in contours, to induce piercing eyes, as to know self is to know others; where desire conquers, to know this force, to exchange secrets; as if in hiding, this faint disclosure, to grapple with expansion. The garden bleeds, upon a feast of souls, to hear it in the background. It dwells in trauma, those childhood scars, compounded by adulthood. How to outsoar mirrors; this aloof image, the flowers of perception; as getting closer, to suffer delusions, a phenomenon grounded in illusions. There’s a hole of emotions; a system of reasons; as to confound intellect. The music continues; the ink lives; for this is this life; to watch for scolding; a short reply; to avoid frustration—where the surface distracts, from the deeper inquiry, as one ill-equipped.     We lose in pieces, as to undergo change, to experience mystery; as to know in parts, this internal chi, at war to unveil. We must engage, to find for peace, a moment of clarity; as to define, and utter barely—the full dynamics. We often retreat, to preserve this space, where moods change, to creep into crevices. We feel in unison, this exotic thought, to pull at energies. The ember flickers, as chasing thoughts, to pause as one conditioned.    

A Swan was Born

Why for this day, Love; born out of turn, determined for such parents; never to despair, this air of majesty, as concentrated as Kung Fu. We’ve broached a vortex, this living scar, to cry for justice; this thought of pearls, this inner conversion, to build upon legends. We love for hearts, to see them fly, that mist of presence. The journey was paved, out of tears and contention, to out mourn Jeremiah; but never to perish, this immortal life, trekking through dreams; where prayers are budlike, and parallels amaze—the wanderlust. This day has come, to slice this wave, as one so precious. I thought of Isaiah, to dwell in mercy, to summons his soul; as to infuse a swan, while dawn is grieving, but times are joy, to have for nuances, the grandest tides, to restructure focus. Wisdom is intricate, where shadows roar, where daughters cleave to reason; to challenge, the erring thought, to witness a catastrophe.     I held earrings, and diamond anklets, and dropped a tear; for hell was near, to overthrow silence, a ring of introjects; nevertheless, live as a giant, as wise as legends, and court imagination; as to chisel a memoir, to enhance character, to give depth to thoughts; for this is us, affected by lightning, to out-dance affliction. We seek for signs, reading through symbols, the breadth of this agreement; while many watch, to join our journey, where the heart morphs; this inner communication, as prided on fey, as welkin as mystery. We’re given this day, as chided by life, to closely triumph. What for this life, in turn to see, the muddy mirrors; as to buff frantically, this way of waves, where air is a beam of light; so live to outlive—the trials and tribulations, to shine in the darkest room; for these are measures!   

Love as Tugs

I love you—to hold you, even to argue. We chime the velvet rose, a bit confused, screaming at platinum mirrors. I saw sorrow, to infuse light, to watch a metamorphosis. We through wands, to cast spells, at love like death. Its butterfly wings, thrumming a piano, a mandala of intimacy; as grave this midnight, as pulled asunder, yanked and tugged and cast astray; to come for joy, this lotus of tears, thriving in mire. Oh for tattooed pains, to dig for essence, whereat, the waves; this brave fever, thrusting and dying, a moment in a memory. It’s ever our opera, as pangs rupture, to relish their presence: that turquoise anchor, to gyrate for death, this small entity. We crawl this vision, a room of kids, to wonder of so much. I can’t to please you, as one crying to please you; it’s lapwing weeds, for terrible joys, to love this stranger; as desperate to appease, as losing lands, the angst of this bliss; that fatal turn, to hold for secrets, the eyes of our neighbors. I hear us speak, of such the times, when love was a miracle; to sit as watching, to ask for fevers, to than retreat. Aside for love, we capture love, to challenge love. It’s ever to wilt, this glorious lotus, to rebuild a fortress. I know not the waves, this cycle of us, a tulip on a cloud; as to feel alien, as one detached, from the life that we live. Its miracle diamonds, to favor this love, to loathe this love; as feeling confused, as to adore this love, as vexed through tornadoes. I entered a dream, to feel this tug, yanking at dreams. The cinema screams, the matinee cries, and the aftermath laughs; while we wail, as wrapped in love, this pursuit of love; that fatal life, to love like fools, at one with infusion. I love you patient, at one with love, this flux of hell-bent.    

Mother Lived a Miracle

You gave examples, by this stance of wisdom, as statuesque knowledge. I watched in awe, merely a child, at search through crevices. There were ghosts, as swarming innocence, a waterfall as a dungeon. We often smiled—oven green onions and eggs, nibbling sausage. Sunday awoke piety, that gaudy yellow suit, a Bible, and the art of few questions; but life was hectic, at least eight days a week, as never to speak of poverty; we merely lived it, as two resilient, to bleed through outcomes. I saw it, etched in brows, at peace with a routine: the late night fancies, the daylight flames, as one soaring from chemicals. We sought friendships, in an adverse world, living as refugees; but oh the courage, that face of steel, boiling water to cleanse utensils.    

I see more the bad, for it affects us more, when it outweighs the good; this complicated growling, driven within, pulling at sanity. To know you passed, induced an upwelling—I see you more in your absence: the silent screams, the overt language, that style of dying, that world of excuses. “It couldn’t be me, for I wouldn’t do that. It isn’t fair, the way that you treat me.” While pain is a miracle, in certain degrees, it causes confusion; too much is detrimental—we opt for resistance, to build our muscles; as opposed to grief, as a daily regimen, this thing fueled through anger; and so misguided, to do it for years, while asking for miracles; but what for love, from one so scolded, this miracle of events; to live as gray matter, searching for buoyancy, at war with this inner person? Anger found a home, strangled in silence, to project said anger; as one living death, unhappy with status, sorrowed by the means of your joy.  

As a child, raised by a soldier, even a warrior, initiating wars; such is glamorous—to impress upon a mind, a woman that changed with the currents: the tides of the seas, that inner yearning, that feeling of immortality: to chisel a fallin’ castle, as to rebirth, a rising son, to see it as miracles. We know for little, as one so young, mesmerized by the inappropriate. But what for right, streaming through generations, as one so rebellious. They imbue us, to feed this person, alert to its actions—to utter, “Cut it out. Stop that. I know you know something.” It’s an orientation, to get one to listen, where too much thinking alters the core. I took to this universe, as one filled with thoughts, a friend of dysfunction—to become this something.     

He paused at Sunfall

She gave me life, as late this outcome, to stir the width of prose. I loved blindly, for barely a clue, imbued by essence. It was salient depth, this cross of lives, as specious as the truth. I love your silence, to probe this psyche, as compelling as hidden forces. How to hold you—as succinct the pain, the warmth of a cup of tea? I feel you deeply, to never catch your gaze, the verve of this enchant; for acacia vines, that plunder consciousness, the fuel of this zeal; as laughed by some, to feel so little, this message of atmospheres. I hate control, to loathe its absence, this internal paradox; as dressed in cedar, this lotus of flowers, the degree of our distant woes. I couldn’t to find, a reasonable reason, as to become deeply enchanted; for this is love, the absence of whys, the cries of treacherous rest; to see you flourish, as gray the feeling, this midnight brilliance. I saw you jingle, in a room so cold, as one so equipped. It plagued a thought, the walk of love, a canopy to a giant. I see us breathing, for enchanted rarely, as captivate by fluidity. Just ponder the thought, this trek of trains, as distressed as an absent gesture. I knew a dove, to reckon her soul, to amble the opposite direction. I left her blank; she left me plane; the motives of our absence; as one desolate, but filled with joy, the paradox of our commission. I’ll walk away, as one insane, to challenge your studies; of pearly gold, the fold of charm, as the decay of winsome urges. It couldn’t be, this shake of dust, as spurned by a locomotive; so more to death, this inner life, to breed as nonchalant. I heard a voice, to soothe a soul, to pardon my deep infraction; so heaven's fair, as sandals and straps, to growl at the outcome.  

Our Sky is Bending

The pain of this glory, to enter Jerusalem, as one so young; to pardon this breach, this inner ambrosia, the harvest of our minds! I sought a phantom, to fawn for weeks, aglow this travesty. We know not the weather, as to care for weather, aloof our daily activities. There’s a swan, afloat an island, at peace but a moment in grief; to act as if—the stars are ruling—this impetuous planet. I try to fathom, the likes of mishaps, for one to do it the same. We stumble and not know it: the knotted spasms, the glorious pains, the shame of our nightmares; as one favored by riches, as to offset the conscience, as to mingle with death; so oh the mercy, bestowed upon fate, the measure of the hollowed souls! If not for your love, the heart would retreat, to watch as life beats the empty soul; for it couldn’t be drugs, to fever such hate; and it couldn’t be liquor, to fever such ignorance; and yet it is, the sloths of light, as paranoid as a guilty mind; but we love it more, the weird reigns, the mysteries chains, as one courted for altars. What aims to come, for two so crooked, living as if the world is ignorant? I dare to ask, and dare to laugh, as one misunderstood; to read the irony, to fault us as vexed, and still yearn this gray forgiveness. It couldn’t be real, this alien enchant, to love as long as love is blind.     Do as we choose, but freedom the souls, as caught in webs; for this is mercy, especially for us, as two unworthy of kindness; else for hells, to blame the worlds, as curls unravel. He gave me dung; you gave him love; as a way of saying thank you! I couldn’t believe it, as it crossed the ears, to know for such hatred; but the lines are long, filled with regrets, to dribble the last song.   

Purple Rain

Life this gentle flower, as opposed to nightmares, running from the grim reaper. Our rain is purple, this featured love, as radical as Armageddon. We’ve chased a dream, as one that’s morphing, our light cultured by gravity; as pulling souls, the wealth of this sadness, to speak of an afterlife.

I’ve reread a glance, as fevered with flames, as antsy as pacing. Was it our lot, a pair of tyros, where one was hiding? It’s beyond placation, this wildlife furnace, where two are aloof. Its angst the feature, and hell the diamonds, to infiltrate a feeling; in which for madness, to witness our icons, pushing towards an encounter; for life has perished, a symbol dear, bathing in purple rain;

to adore a sign, as to drill as hapless, the omen’s cave. I fawn in jest, as one to fawn, while years were speaking; in which was pain, to restructure light, this effulgent rhythm; as added to chaos, this fearless love, the caprice of our moments; to wither as roses, for something helpless, pulled by cords this mischief.

I’ll let it go, as one born this heart, to feign to self this reach; for rain is purple, but love isn’t—as royal as a purple dove; to chime with self, a thousand thoughts an hour, ever to cadge oneself; whereat is want, as created through thunder, the beauty of love driven; to hope for us, this myth of a dream, to burgeon as a nightmare.

We love you more, the culture of legacy, to pardon this breach.     

I Thought of Love

I thought of hands to caress a desert of grains. I thought of tears that wash mire from eyes. I thought our melody of life: the ups raddled by impending normalcy; the downs as to carry a modicum of promise. I thought of lovemaking; the fact of found wanting; that want to give this rapture colored with séance. I thought of dreams; that textured challenge; for one to give to our life of freedoms.     We rock gently this fire of traumas, as to place faith in a longing soul; to paste a scar, as far as minds can see, while aches throb through surface veins.     I’m threshed through with thoughts: the tender goodbyes; that welcomed good-morning; that gesture that whispers, I need you. We circle woes for an atypical love; to see us rising from hell—that distant lake, this river of fluidity; as soul to fountain that freshet of mercy grounded in trust. We love as motive to mind the good-times sung on high, where justice is a feeling as solid as passion; the steel of our emotions; or compassion for our aches; or that nudging question that defines our love. As energy becomes light, to know our presence, that gray filter becomes a royal diadem; to stress a sudden frown; or rage like hell—over our love’s anguish. We paint to die this way. We rewrite journals, where our love gallops to our rescue. We purpose our affairs.     We never knew of love to see for love this love etched in our neighbor’s eyes; as to want this love, to waver the doubts, to give all of what we couldn’t possess: our latent affections; our opaque feelings; even our headlong passions; to arouse this love, in the souls of love, as guilty for love.     I thought of hands to caress this cherished grain. I thought of tears that rinse the mire. I thought of love.       

We Live a Proverb

I savor a dream, and so alive, to die the nightfall—as one with hells, as one to glisten, a contour filled with jewels. We live as anxious, to do this thing, alert like wolves; to fumble the heart, ever at ends, to choose between loves; as to hold to both, this deep infraction, to ruin the prides. Oh the blunders, to hold a position, as one totally correct. I can’t but laugh, to see us fallin’, a symbol for fools, even a Proverb. We picture perfection, as perfect as illusions, as perfect as our first kiss; to hide in secret, a life for every world, as to hold it together. Its rapture this dance, as captured by morals, as laughing at proprieties; for it’s the cards, that the dealer deceived, to rescue the deaths; where hell is perfect, and heaven is perfect, perfected as designed. We yearn the taboo, to live that edge, as pictured in a baby: the grand gestures, the torn surprises, the longing of eyes. I laugh insanely, this deep contentment, to then retreat—and even from self. Have we seen the mirror, this tired reflection, screaming obscenities? I ask—as one that torn, to swelter through prosecution—as inflicted on self. We cried to laugh, as our voice cracked, as becoming hysterical. It’s truly the tales—to flicker a flame, to feel the mystic, as one that far, a fantast in a jar, the cards of neighbor’s. Tell the story, of heaven and hell, the cross of two worlds; to sip for gin, to drench in lies, the cries of a dear friend; one as worthy, of more allegiance, despite our guile. I couldn’t for see it, the tallest tales, to reap the deepest pits; where love smiled, as one so righteous, to court her own disaster; and this was me, for she rarely sees, the hands of her actions.  

By Design/By Essence

We bounce back—that infernal leap—to garner joys; to flow like light, that particle of us, a group of canons. I fell this earth, so young my life, as one born too early: the deep regrets, the hostile liquids, that star running the cosmos. I hid love, to fathom love, to push passed the privies; where gods heard—the goddess speak—of charms this life. I rose this night, to alter these days, the last of a dying breed. It couldn’t be us, as once so intimate, to loathe the draperies. I’m sick for love, scratching for pulling, every dread an entity; to fly like love, to rapture a vest, as one imposed upon; and love knew, the hidden crevice, to rake a nightmare; where all was flavors, that distant river, to pitch a tent; and there you are, clad in skywear, preaching a sermon. We pause to watch, the fire stirring, a cloud at our sides; to filter the grays, as black and whites, the flux of lucky charms. Was it us—that flaming sequence, to search for a repeat; to chase like falcons, the roots of prayer, this internal experience. The scalp sweats, the heart pulsates, the mind is pearls; that deep gem, a series of diamonds, to love a stranger; for nothing more—than ghostly spirits, as one so inclined. It couldn’t be, this hint of love, punctured by reality; and yet to live, we must to die—this poetic love; the melody of tears, as melic the whispers, as telic the design; to see for wisdom, the long winters, to never utter the goodbyes; for this is life, a vault in a brain, a volt to a soul; as born this way—the days of old, as misunderstood. It wasn’t us, during the a.m. to chime with grace—a wave for waves! I thought it real, my inner thoughts, this person’s dreams; as one awakened, by such the feeling, this inner manic. 

Anguish this Day

I’m trying to fight it; maybe I should hide it; this internal anguish; as flight from conscious, this swarm of locusts, this barricade. Oh this gland—throbbing from presence, to enter our natures; to fly like bees, to soar like eagles, as calm as apes. I’ve died to live, as living to die, this romantic enchant. I loved to touch, as touching to live, deprived on both accounts. I couldn’t for perish, to ponder a swan, to know the flames of fury; as one paranoid, to cloth all thoughts, to exist as a manikin: the deepest highs; that tender low; to mix a concoction. We sip like fish, a little at a time, to guzzle unto elimination—from the here and now, sparked through lights, to kneel in anguish. I love us breathing, through tears that fall, at sudden the moment. I saw a collar, and felt regrets, a life strung in misery; but oh the joys, to hold a baby, as one that has arrived. It’s ever gray; to lose so much, as one destined for hells. I wrestle deeply—this internal scar, low enough to see; and there was love, this platonic love, spinning in my honor. We probe a monster, as alive as friction, to clutch the good. I need a nightlight, the sky to open, as Jesus descends. It’s true to mystery, to afflux a heart, to reach a nation. A séance is close—that inner/outward flame, to engulf believers. It’s ever this heart, to cry with Christ, as faithful as Gertrude; as pain trickles, to write for freedom, as one enclosed inwardly: ever that prison, to gain for peace, a moment in a cocoon. The earth is spinning, to drown a thought, as a flood of insecurities; to see her face, spread on balloons, as floating through territories; to finally fall, as one to give up—this taboo dominion. Please this life, as scraped asunder, to walk a thousand deaths; oh the monster, pushing and pulling, as to scribe insanity; but this is life, that inner grief, at one with God.     

Inward this Pulling

It couldn’t be you, this inward awning, this moment of refuge; to suffer thoughts, as one afraid, purposed as the greatest worth. I turn this walk, this inward brooch, this trinket, this ornament, refined in fiery trials. I come to you pulling, as some sort of demigod, one founded in virtue: to outwit the tension; to embrace the laughter; to harness such discipline. It couldn’t be you, this inward chorus, this tender keepsake. I feel you seeping, as relics to souls, this indwelling sanctum. I feel you hiding, as tired of the pulling, this indwelling angst; for it becomes apparent, to question our minds, asearch for one that aids the furnace. It’s mainly idyllic, founded in a thought, to feel your heartbeat—as deep intuition, grounded in concentration, even pressure through our eyes. You impassion a force, to induce a soulquake, to charge this inward arc; as such is needed, this bleeding imprint, alive but bawling; as such reticent love, a fever spellbound, planting indelible feelings; to paste a wall, with sheer undulation, starring heavenward; as through telic eyes, this dreamlike dimension, this cosmic symbol: to have for souls, this congenial scar, able to reach a myriad of souls; as gruesome inrush, to fever a castle of knights; at odds with self, courted in a dream, to awaken to human flesh; to irrigate hearts, a cistern as a mind, pouring into the potter; as one so vast, this surreal mantra, engraved upon soulbeats: that infinite ruse, to set free the arms, as challenged by this inner woe. The matrix is flawless, designed for combat, where two pull at wings. It’s a dazzling affair, as effulgent as sunbeams, as faultless as love.     

Are We Always Innocent?

We’ve lived it—this wealth of death, as friction and soul, that major part of destruction; oh to flinch it, this inner mince, that further the frame. I captured love, oft and again, to regret my mind. The music blares, staring at grief, this joy for growth. Oh the twisted, a vein in a spirit, aloft a different planet; as plums to monkeys, as grain to deer, or the likes of love to hells. The bells rang, to run through vineyards, to hang an image; for it was us, that inner dying, pleading a mirage; to catch for death, the kef of fools, drooling at the finish line. I hurt a soul, that damaged souls—and where for justice? It was breath, that distant friend, to bring fey alive. I chanted rivers, to paint the greenlands, to live as a fortress. Oh for frightened, to get too close, to know for losing; so more the hells, the false thoughts, the psychotic fevers; to challenge love, as something gray, for science ruined us. There must be more, than mere arrangements, or rather, a bank account. If not than death, this fatal art, if one might succumb. I hear you more, that the sun has fallin’, those screeching cries; to lead to you, if that than this, a kiss from logic; to drift causality, to right the wrong, and never could; for pain is law, this forgiving storm, a hundred rounds in; but was it you, to cripple love, as spread so thinly? I fathom not, to fathom more, the core as a dungeon; to venture your mind, this state of affairs, as cultured as a feral pang. It never leaves, to grip a soul, this unsaid anguish; and pain laughed, for we didn’t grow, a mirror mocking—the late nights, to oversee, this deep infraction; so less to anger, and more to onus, to finally take charge—of something that lingers, to etch a feyic of grief.      

Some Type of Fool

I inhale the flame, as torn asunder, to witness my life. How for nightmares, that closer for damaged, walking as sages; to fool for self, this inner phantom, to cleave the Ghost. The soul is vexed, as silent torture, to obtain a day; where hell rests, where a psych is absent, but still at a brain’s reach; to fall for parts, to deign to self, this riddled implication. How to surpass it, where growth would settle, truly a detriment? Oh the smallness, to live as torn, to ask, How does it feel? I’m not the same, as to outsoar self, this grandiose gesture, this psychotic soul; but not for death, as one so slanted, to infer the subtle deaths; or shadow this life, a mother as a foe, a father as a phantom. We can’t escape it, this inward journey, this outward appearance; to see for patterns, at that exact moment, where the mind is haywire; oh the mischief, as cordial foes, a pigeon for research; where hell is sewing—a grand piano, to watch us squirm. Are we different souls—flattered by mimics, up and ‘til that given moment; to run like fools, to render hatred, for one that states the facts. It couldn’t be real, a lying mirror, aware of our follies!—for yet it lives, the inner friction, taunting our liquor. Oh to love us, this acute fire, the zeal of resistance; to flame as fools, to court as fools, to ignore as fools; for we mustn’t ask, the total ass, of their behavior; else to offend, this outward vex, to incur an outward label; so more the false, to challenge dreams, to feel as an outcast. Oh to love us, to feel this fuse, even a wick in a psyche—burning from soul to soul, this fever of fools. I speak of self, as to push a boundary, as far to her pleasure; for this is pain, to lessen esteem, the foresight of fools.    

It’s Ever to Love You

It’s the fear of knowing you; that intimate knowledge, forever unseen; as green the lands, filtered by silence, a frequency overwhelmed; so more the volts, as accustomed to rain, this link of feral fires. We speak of death, this intimate war, enlove but one essence; for one cherished, a diamond of love, this platinum flower; as us so beige, split as legends, ever to keep you near. I break forth in joy, amused with patience, as weak as a fallen kiss; to fly your soul, as greeted with mercy, the hectic outcome. It’s ever your name, the Braille of flesh, the welts of your mind; as one embedded, into something afflux, the silence of the deepest moments; while baguettes twinkle, upon fingers of bliss, this kiss thrown for seas; as two knitted, from marrow to bone, bleeding the great trauma; to live but one soul, the motion of music, wine, and tender this reach; as one enchanted, streaming as mystic manics, enlove with sheer essence.       

We live in seasons, like deciduous groves, haunted by our last autumn; as to hunt for joys, captured in segments, where life was altered; wherefore frustration, this internal chase, pausing to receive—as sheer perfection, a steak cooked rare, a mutual fever. It’s ever this light, our panic of tomorrow, as needles to a spine. We passion through energy, this shorn delight, gassed by a fervent gaze; to culture as if invisible, that star of hearts, as a gem leaping to catch you. It’s the fear of knowing us; that cryptic knowledge, forever this silent muse; to simmer in vineyards, somewhere a soulcave, as one smitten with infinity.  

Born Through You

to achieve such heights; would it then subside; this inner craving, for one so twisted, as a gift from God. i stand possessed, an inner mandala, pushing towards fractures; to live as death, the breath of life, this biblical dialogue. we swarm for beauty, an altered thought, compelling our futures; to live as breakage, in challenge our dreams, to enter with such grace. it feels elusive, this constant probing, this inward suggestion; as one for grays, as mischief of days, where a woman prays. i feel this churn, an outward infusion, that charm we cherish; to chart—this art for learning, as potent as a first drink; as one awoken, that inner vest, drilled with sensations; as to cry from grief, a bit too tipsy, to articulate words. i can’t go further, where something is pulling, as yanking every sentence; to say for more, this deep affliction, to burden a soul. i grieve you less, as something normal, this spiritual fire; for more our tenets, this false to fathom, carving gravel. it couldn’t be real, this unreal reality, as i scratch a pause—that further our tears; to climb downward, this inner abyss, tugging at sanity. the earth has fallen; the skies are shaken; where you stand in eloquence; where i scorn this hold; but what is feeling, but spiritual grains, an art intuitive; to give us more, of this tacit feeling, studied with inventory; to scratch for drilling, those inward lights, to sketch your grace; as one to live, if but a kiss, of something running through oceans; to pick for bottles, an infant’s words, where impact is monumental. i couldn’t see, as one so clouded, camping at a red sign; i couldn’t find, this cryptic urge, as one with insanity; to die your lands, a fist full of pains, stippled with such joy; but what was life, but the furies of hell, this inner sensation; to push a castle, this edge of souls, to drown in a passionate soul. i can’t for think, of love so rare, to stare as one blocked from insights.      

Born Through Others

It’s sheer infraction, as base for this study, to resist persistence; as wine to an addict, while scratching for screaming, as mistyping grains. You’re a new thought, compounded by grace, a feature peeking! It wasn’t real, this skeptic illusion, as a Sophist in a brain. He spoke allusions—as something foreign—as your ousia in this chain; as a deep oasis, chasing fertile thoughts, a stranger to a dove. We frighten souls, this déjà vu, as outward introjects. We see us walking, as shadowed thoughts, as one a conscious terror, running towards mirrors; in asking something so gray, as for wants of love, receiving without giving. She died her youth—to fumble as woman, attached to endless trauma. We chimed a river, as fluid as dreams, this uncanny charm; to hold for years, this inward itching, as one courting pains.

It’s sheer travesty, to haunt as haunted, by gems this ocean, even your heaving breasts. We shouldn’t be as real, this laced reality, at odds with delusion; to pant at creeks, as deers aloof, to crave as distance we cherish. It couldn’t be you, for why as purpose, to become a legend; as one immortal, this private station, a fantasy casted in bottles. We await no-thing, this feeling as non-detached, this inner contradiction; to fly as fervor, featured in a psyche, so distant from ours. Its growth this passion, as one to say little, purposed in a riddle; as sphinx as jinn, even for dungeons, this something existential; to possess possession, as one possessed, this feature as protrusion. To die is personal, as imperfect bolts, susceptible to pliers; as one to struggle, to break cocoons, as one suddenly born.

I drift.

I push you with a finger, and you fall into a comma, that closer the diamond pyramids. We shift and turn, alert to chaos, that further the future; and not a word, to capture this illness, and wrapped in fevers. I love you born, while I sit dizzy, influenced by the girth of wine; to live and die, a culture inborn, the harness of dreams. The horse gallops, through an inner movie, affected by sheer motives. How for sadness, to wrestle realities, as one a bit partial to feelings; where this is life—the self as enemy, sorting through loud noises; for it wouldn’t come, this in-between, gripping and grasping at sanity. I seriously died, to live this life, as dark as midnight terrors. We’ve stolen God, to define God, a God we created; and we perish God, to meet for God, the horror of silence. I tried for sight, to lose for gravity, the wealth of our discontent; where you couldn’t see, the slant of brains, as required to see; but this is pain, that deep infusion, to wrestle with God. I can’t for feelings, to find for perfect, a compelling sequence; and yes for hurt, the birth of folly, searching for science; to see and give, the tears of reason, that much an enemy; as God to man, to gain that position, to influence the cryptic core; for power whelms, to infect for souls, the calling of a billion men. I love us more, to stir for demons, as one to fracture the other side; in which is love, to finally see, this something indwelling; but what for pain, to dearly achieve, as one stagnated by pain; to flit dimensions, as one so gray, to filter a travesty; where hurt is law, to feel the pavement, to then arise—from slump and slum, this inward grave, as liquid as potent liquor.    

I’m Still Aloof this Inward Compulsion

I’m jealous for you, this infamous woman, our dear beloved. Your silent vocals, radiate in madness, I’m yonder the passion. You speak disdain, to challenge the shame, to drift so valiantly. I’m singing, burning with fury, amazed for exotic; and there you dwell, a figment of thoughts, this voracious reader; to want for antidotes, a friendless empire, resting as awestruck. I vanish in presence, to flinch in terror, to stammer through conversations. It’s ever us, as sheer the ghosts, two to never greet; this majestic ugliness, to think as radical, the entrance of this force. You vibe in warmth, chided in grief, to do as one pleases. It couldn’t be, this thing of dalliance, a mandala on a psyche; where Auntie Mame would wax in flames, an oracle of adventure. I held you, in such a myth, to invoke our deepest regrets; for what was it, to straddle strangers, to gather a second glance? Was it chemistry, this vast abyss, a stranger to a mirror; to see for riddles, to ponder transgression, this anchor from childhood? We seduce at ease, this ethereal charm, at desperation to discern life. It couldn’t exist, this deep perdition, a conclave of the soul. I smile at unawares, as nervous and scared, searching for a bower; the torn infernals, our empyreal trauma, disguised as a shelter. We want ambrosia, a bit confined, to fantasize daily; to dear admittance, this deep frustration, to yearn your eyes. It wasn’t salient, this force of pains, this inner anxiety. It was more a pistol, nudging a rib, this pungent beauty. I treat you with sheer distance; you treat me the same; as one captured in spiritual webs; to publish chaos, to stipple infraction, as serene as a broken chateau. I savor this you, somewhere afar, a woman struggling; to channel devastation, as an inner narrator, pushing towards a miracle. It couldn’t be, this grotto of pains, this outward matinee; this forward squall, our sullen fate, to gib like strangers; but such is love, to never approach, a prophetic pain.   

Drumbeat II

I felt you, the touch of hearts, as platonic as energy; or is it so, this partial energy, connected to intelligence; this inner force, to course through waves, to permeate the heartcave. I hear you more, this silent language, to read your eyes; as one crying, saturated in balance, this outward sensation. The soul pants, at vibrant brooks, engraved in destiny; in which for dreams, to chase as cheetahs, alive come the capture. It couldn’t be real, this world of spirit, to communicate so grayly. Oh the slow dance, even the tiptoeing, to say, I love you. We mustn’t face it, and we must to face it, this realm of mystery; to chime like dreams, an inner karaoke, our mental songbirds; to want for perfect, and always striving, to be something grand. I love you soaring, as one with innocence, stranded with privileges; in which are fevers, that inward thrust, pushing that outward wave; to sing a heart, to shoot a tornado, even a tsunami. We feel for months, this inner tug, to fret over the presence; but how for souls, to affect for souls, at such a distance. Oh the swan, feral with depth, as torn as the exospheres. I cry and laugh, and laugh and cry, trying for normal; but what for this, to wimble minds, as telic as science; the deep despair, shadowed in bliss, these forces at war; to hassle a soul, to shred a mind, to witness our neighbor’s reflection. I call and wane, I grow and die—changing in increments; to usher a force, that greater than life, as thankful as a saved refugee. Oh the nights, to ponder your soul, to suddenly feel your presence. What for this mystery, and how do you know, exactly as I ponder? It must be a gift, this glory in cloth, the cloth of the flesh; to dip a notch, that far sullen, to suddenly feel with joy.  

Drumbeat

What for this glory of presence, this Ghost of a Being! What for the knowledge of Spirit, slightly hypnotic? We mourn the black and white; our recourse is subtle grays; to flare and flame and burden a thought-pattern. I feel it more the spinning, as one in a whirlwind, filtered through by grace; to have and hold, with our very lives, the magnets of humanity. It’s a cryptic reign, to ignite a spark, where essence lingers; as felt to explain, this cave of activity, as underground as a heartbeat; in which for love, this arc of waves, the riches flickering flames. We feel it daily, this inner warmth, permeated by jolts and volts; to this discern, unto mystic vibrations, this light glimmering in psyches; to have and hold this vessel of tears, frustrated with happiness. Our graves are haunting, to visit in segments, as one whittled within; this carving of days, this cryptic language, to explain this myth; as in vision, this story of dreams, vetted through experience; to rise and die, to return a new person, as alert as a ninja. I think of allies, alive the dungeons, to relish in unforeseen joys; at peace for moments, to dwell in ghosts, this unrelenting magnitude; so charge us gently, as was of old, to flame and soar as angelic souls; for this is Mind, the weather of infinity, as fully human and fully divine; for was it us, delving into lost lands, at one with shooting dreams; as purposed in fire, this inner dwelling, a feature probing this outward spirit; as too fall inward, pulling at dominions, affixed to concentration; to mention to a few, the unexplained, piecing particles of privilege. I mustn’t probe, as one haunted for answers—but I’m sewn for inquiries; this leading feeling, as set aside, as something as a drumbeat.     

Existential Realities II

We die to live it, this immortal life, carving at segues; to finally perish, the warmth of joy, steady for chasing. I saw us living, and eating gourmet meals, a bit unsteady; for love fevers, and pash is passion, where the two sustain a cycle. If only to feel it, to live this matter, weaved in mathematics; to die the comforts, for matter is gray, and fraught with ethical standards. We must for living, to enter this world, as charged as nine volts; if but a fraction, dazed and bruised, afraid of nothing; for this is art, the life as bone, the thoughts as veins; to venture the valleys, hand to soul, grieving the in-betweens. It mustn’t die, this inner song, pleading this unreal reality: the days of angst, the charms as venom, the slights as passions; to see for dungeons, the wealth of joys, to chase one emphatic. I write to reach us—this inward scar, at wants to explain justice. It couldn’t be favor, to concern the many, where hell is an arm reach away; and it couldn’t be for others, where the self suffers, longing through the darkness; so what is it—to strangle injustice, and morph in favor for one and all? I barely see it, after years of chasing, to finally surrender to inner laws; and I barely feel it, aside for thriving, to finally surrender to natural wisdom; to flit through galaxies, as one dearly scorned, to lose the flesh of his flesh; and what for pain, and ever to grow, longing for agitation; oh the secrets, of one so calm, calculating that inner dimension; for this is life—to see and read—the hairs of our success; else to perish, as one deeply gray, alone as one deeply wrong. We can’t but die, in a world so vast, at struggle for formulas; to mold a nation, if the likes of us, the few cursed by the many.    

Existential Realities

What for self, this elusive force, to claim for otherwise; oh the tragedy—of being so gray—and re-stitching tattoos; I found a life, that short of normal, to claim for normal. I’m edgy—a flood of compassion, stressing this inner graph; for most is confusion, a bruise on a pencil, guiding penmanship. We strive for this day, a fleet of joys, tethered to bliss; to awaken lowly, as a cup to shatter, to ponder a new thought; but this is life: the ups for downs, the ink and nibs. What for words, to capture our lines, to explain our woes. The computer mourns, those private memoirs, a tear intensive. We’re beige this way, to see for skeletons, to long for roots: a tulip on a psyche, a leaf as a soul, as immortal the dust. I crumple and disappear, filled with subtle joys, applied through scripted gifts. It would be love, to permeate through sadness, the lakes turned upside-down; as the sky paints, stemming from brains, that last infraction; to chime like passion, thrust with spears, as to count a dozen wounds. It couldn’t be, as one so hated, by one that frowns on righteousness; and ever it is—this torn valley, where daisies grow on graves. I’d cry to see her, a diamond on a star, an intricate algorithm; to censure the pain, as one of authority, to proffer this gift. I died so young, where others counted petals, and others jumped from fruits to sugarcane. The heart is sore, as thriving for comforts, to notice this subtle cycle; as to live through aches, as something existential, to paste a brilliant smile; for ours was crooked, to feel displaced, eating sugar-bread. It mustn’t be, as to one to lose, a bit of everything—as one to gain a bit of heaven; but what is joy, longing in private, for human comforts? I ask self, stressing for answers, reaching further into soil; to enter this space, this map of time, to harness this monster; where hell is fields, and heaven is fields, and the two cross-pollinate. We venture upon thoughts, to garner for truths, to arrive at unawares; for something vets, and something is partial, to a world that proves contrary to consensus; but what for self, as born to think, as gray as feelings?

I live it to feel it, this matter in spirit; to love a myth, if only to grow, if only to stumble upon our hearts; for this is wealth, a golden coin, founded in thought-patterns; so what was it, to finally grasp it, the birth as unreal, but tangible; or rather, a tangible thought, manifested through actions, to see results. I died rejection, to yearn for God, to find something, akin to unreality: the teary nights, the vibrant souls, the chance encounters; where hell was life, spurted with joys, a cross upon a psyche; to sense for death, for so many secrets, that we mustn’t share; and still to sprinkle, the life of some, in order to fulfill the promise.     

Forest Webs

Help us live, through trial this life, addicted as newlyweds; to filter insanity, as tatted your name, bleeding through cloth. I loved the madness, this cage of fools, as intoxicated as love. We nurture the angst, by inner compulsion, as one trembling from passion. I love you more—you love the same, to outwit such knowledge. Its gray the life, for beige the nights, a windward last sight; to die your frame, as one keenly dead, that alive your womb; in which is fair, this spin of dreams, as webbed as cheating lives. Please forgive us—this flock of pangs, contemned for outer cries; and give us lives, an immortal grain, a surgeon of waves; to purchase love, for love to purchase, this vest bleeding sounds. I couldn’t remember, our pious cloths, lost in deadly tales; to cross for perfect, our imperfect dreams, to forge a portrait.     Would it be—this saint of pearls, if not the abandonment; indeed, I ask, sorting through traumas—to read the language, this inner lagoon, grieving this light kiss; in which are moments, that very fragment, as thunder to a woman; to tattoo my name, a vow of eternity, to finally find pleasure. It couldn’t be, this want for mastery, tiptoeing the back slopes; but ever it is, this list of casualties, pleading our brains. Oh this woman, our very ache, as blackened as crows; to haunt for minds, as terror times, as one hired for death; that inner gin, as fallin’ through sin, drifting through an inner jinn. The nights are flesh, stirring through hapless days, as one non-composed. How to see it—this crying fever, longing for goodbyes; to fraction in wealth, this state of affairs, as false as teal currency. We love us less, for something sick, a treasure never coming.        

Hi Love

There’s something to it, Love; this adult life, spinning through consequences. I sweat to ponder it—this life as a monk, forced to enter the city. The years multiply, so be of comforts, to avoid the consequences. We live to taste death; and we perish to taste life. It’s a grand sequence, cuddling puddles, peering through binoculars; if only to see, from far the distance, the motives of breathing. We want for love, to sail the seven seas, to lose before we acquire—this light called love. We see for perils, to enter perils, alive for fleeting moments; to die softly, as something gray, a flame stressing perils; to give compassion, to understand lightly, the human condition; where something grows, this inner warmth, to fathom deeply the burning heart; so build with grace, and pursue for works, a blend building a fortress; where never is possible, this euphoric grain, thrusting towards majesty. We often perish, at young the age, as jaded as rattlers; to sting the closeness, to scorn the love, to stress evermore; it’s a subtle prophecy, to see the same challenge, to carry abandonment; but long we live, learning as apes, to remember a tender touch; to then appear, for love was felt, to strive for justice; and oh the truth, to churn our minds, longing for the good. The pressure lives, storming through souls, this insidious maze; where thoughts appear, an inner damnation, an inner contempt; to challenge peace, the skyward scar, the stress of faith; but long is love, as roses blossom, to imbue the mind; to lean upon gold, and find for lights, this reason to smile. It’s truly incumbent, the waves and stars, to dig a solid root; to master joy, to do for self, to depend on a solemn few.     

Scraping Iron

I’m somewhere afar, staring at dreams, even possessed—that inner twirl, that cultured scar, to wrestle a fever. If only to grab it, this miracle light, as troubled as alive: this semi-torture, to spin as restless, to sit in chaos. I couldn’t catch us, to watch the downfall, crawling in mire; ever for rebirth, to carry a phantom, screaming at humanity. The walls are moving, a series of mirrors, where something is laughing and mocking and wailing obscenities. I’m heavy this world, accomplishing tasks, as segue to a familiar station. We feel this heart, chartered in space, to live disease; but whom to tell—of inward cries, this game of tic-tac-toe. I’m winning to lose, for losing to win, a peg in a knee; as one to yearn, this thing called peace, to grasp it in moments. It’s so elusive, the tease of a famous meal, where the flavor dwindles. I wonder of a psych, to know for secrets, this round the clock madness; to pucker up, to buff the mirror, to cringe while keeping concealed. Its inner mayhem, for inner joys, to explore the mystics; its tender torture, this inner discomfort, a moment found in mirrors; this infinite chase, to see one’s face, buried in the netherworld; this taste of death, the long intervals, to hope different for others. I pray to chant, to fall to rise, to feel that inner churn; to live it blankly, to gain for insights, to wrestle the inner person. Why for discomfort, this tender ache, filled with numbers of angst. I couldn’t catch us, the long held positions, weary of interactions. I couldn’t speak, afflicted with aphasia, pleading in spirit. The eyes swell, screaming at emptiness, carving this inner mirror; to hike the Grand Canyon, even the Himalayas, to scrape from iron this joy.   

Spiritual Friends

She volts his heart, beaming with electricity, stored in vessels. He sits amazed, by something impartial, brimming with motive. Such is contrast, this vague difference, challenging perception; for he wouldn’t ask, and she wouldn’t tell, so they muse upon phenomenon. Could it ever be, this sect of pain, stirring sympathies; for something is living, even a force-field, where they feel consciousness? He writes, and she appears, thrumming internally; she pauses, and there he appears, nudging a thought. They live as phantoms, disguised in energies, this converse through distance. Was it her, to turn a heart into a fan; and was it her, to transfix the inner person? They merged in spirit, where each are weary—of maintaining such secrets. Oh the art, the zest of life, this zeal the floods the chakras. It becomes normal—this mystic interaction, where one feels for comforts. It becomes enchanting, to never know, where a name uttered stirs vibrations. So they venture—this vast journey, as spiritual allies. He mourns, and she wails, and the two enter into spirit; to strike through lightning, a series of volts, to uplift a spiritual friend. It’s quite a mystery, where the heart is thriving, accustomed by the mind. Is this intelligence: to guide with focus, as one directing through thoughts, the impact of thunder? I ask—a bit infused, for believing in the unseen; but what for volts and energy and this vibrant presence? How to chance upon a friend, in this silent realm, where such thoughts appear? It’s cryptic in its reality, as this force streaming within, sparked by travel. We set our root in feeling, even sensations, where we dare not look to our left or our right. So they stand as stillness, alive in parts, connected as friends to strangers.  

Environmental Disposition

She knew love, as cascading dysfunction, that enticed by hell: the ups shattering downwardly, the high tides breaking skies, and the tussle of heated debauchery. I loved this paragon, a breast that nursed us, growing this inward aversion; for what was life, a vestibule of broken hearts, and dreams fractured by poverty! We lived spinning through space, as accustomed to chaos, drifting through empty bottles; as acclaimed by death, studied by tensions, struggling through post-traumatic syndrome. The earth is distant, as intimate as nature, this grand paradox; as to challenge souls, knitted in pandemonium, wrestling through ghetto storms; to arrange this mind, the sickest orientation, married to fleeting fancies. We relish in dreams, to be for “normal”, unaware of their turmoil: the darkened heart-states, the sheer distrust, and teary eyed longings.

We glean from muddy lakes, distracted highly, to give birth to clarity; this world of contradiction, flowing in chaos, attracted to bee stings; as to grow weary, of something familiar, to search and feel awkward; for love is peculiar, a pair of mirrors, staring through images. The tides are roaring, the fire is flaming, and we feel like orphans; for we live yearning, for something “normal”, to alter our entire lives; and we die screaming, to break our reflection, as feeling inferior. I watched it, storming through boxes, and fleeing caves; to feel it creeping, a snake in a spine, to devastate our beating thoughts.  

There’s Life Living, as Expressed

There’s a must this love, this condition, this know thyself; as esoteric this world, rivaled by none, unless pointing towards God; so we garner approvals, a language so simple, to exist as ourselves; this deep mirage, founded through public eyes, unless to know thyself.

I’d move self this portion of minds, as connected through raptures—to know this deep self, wrapped in individuality, singing from the top of mountains; as opposed to this partial freedom, where self is boxed—by a multitude of cages.

It couldn’t be us, ever this certainty, in something that doesn’t sing within; this position, missing parts, as evidential as mere letters: this hubris of times, this outward condition, this fluff without power; where deep the scar to breed the arts, this infusion of souls.

We couldn’t ignore this bounty of self, this out of body experience; where we couldn’t ignore this euphoric island, spreading wings, to suddenly bless a soul; in which we couldn’t ignore, this feeling vibrant through heartcaves.

We practice this craft, ever to see results, delving deeper into creation; as one alive, as filled with flames, as soaring through dimensions. We challenge disbelief, as one living belief, as one living as esoteric—this life, riddled with divinity, captured in your eyes.    

Just Write, my Love

We die your justice, that inner killing, to swarm perceptions. I cried the daylight hours, to watch dysfunction, as one alive in loneness; to venture this current, this spectrum of us, amazed by hits of joy; but there’s a woman, to gaze and stare, enlove with circumstances. I see us blinking, alert but shallow, as to protect self. We fall the ridges, to lose for friends, the heaven of correctness. It was ever grief, to random this light, a ransom for drifting. What is this case, a mother for the terrors, alive as one’s sorrows; to flit and fly, the sky as fallin’, to nestle in broken cages; or live this life, a soldier in therapy, as blank as a woman’s fear; but it couldn’t be, a grave attraction, to something so vague; in which is drama, to aid professions, abroad in a sitting cell. I heard for love, this shaken self, to realize deep illusions; of maybe crawling, a myth in a vase, to hear you screaming, I’m here! But this is folly, even a fantasy, to fancy what the mind needs: a place to relax, a shelter from realty, even the Twilight Zone. Was it us, the world inflamed, this inward infusion? It must have been, for death withheld—this fatal hand: to die and leap from the hands of grief, if only a moment in space; so hold me close, this woman my heart, as aloof as not present; to wrestle the gray, as something black and white, a centipede to exhale. It was never us, this grand departure, to trouble our peers; and it was ever us, this tallest tale, as cryptic as the mind; to fall and rise and rise and fall, a sequence to burden inner laws. I love you more, for such retreat, to push this angst of prose; where demons cry, and angels wail, to fail God’s commission; but more to life, to see us through, the tides as falling through diamonds.    

Childhood Voice

Stifle this force, to see us rebel.

Give us wings, to watch us fly.

We race against time, speaking as softly—as doves of flames; to cherish this voice, to hear it wail, for the silence of the living-room.

The walls are melting. Our palms suffer malnutrition. The ceiling is bleeding whispers.

Oh for freedom, this elusive vice, as precious as swans, as cryptic as psychiatry.

We broke links, where hell broke loose and no one’s wrong; oh if it was, this myth in chains, to hate the one we’ve scorned; as one infallible, this would die phoenix, suffering truths; and so analytical and so partial to a theory that we dare not apply to self.

My gracious friend—the nights are gentle, saturated in melancholy; but oh the nights, to sit alone, as one to feel—this inner force, that heat of rebellion, to play it out in series; to know a reply, these grounds of training, the birds breaking free; in which is life, ever to hear it, to know, I can’t but fly.     Mirrors become teachers—as we float through lines, as we kneel near brooks; for oh this living-room, a vault of secrets, a wealth of distrust; where it must be others, for I’m never wrong, as one destined for perfection—despite the outcomes, despite the facts, for nothing matters aside for being right.     What for mystery, science, even life? These faculties—embedded in a psyche, where birds raise their hands, in torn frequencies, this inward challenge, to agree, while gritting softly; for it rarely hears, the wings of justice, to rarely feel the deepest comforts; but know for broken, these infrequent laws, where chaos hampers communication; to one’s detriment, to ask the same question, Why are you so quiet, even so distant? This becomes our price, for speaking back, where one is volatile; and this becomes inheritance, where adults rarely speak, of more than the latest fads; but it’s worth it, for I’m forever right.        

The word love—as such vehicle, to finally speak of ghosts; to fly so grayly, the psychology of pain, in need of a therapist; in which for stress, to unlock demons, that roar through psychic valleys: to hate and love and mourn and cry and plead for whys?     We see addictions, plus addiction, to this need to control the absent feelings. Oh to rage, as one rebellious, to die in degrees; where silence is law, but one must speak, to say it as they heard it; its total joy, buried in melancholy, where the child is screaming, in an unheard voice.     The glass has shattered; and oh such pain—to know the following: We do not see you as you envision yourself; we see hell!