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.
