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.
