Such
calmness is eerie—a manikin as a portrait—a mind as steady seas…to search this
parade, embedded in souls, as one dearly unborn…where hassles occur, for those
once born, striving for rebirth. We scream through fixations, alive come
death—the chef of this nightmare; as one stationed lowly, to hydroplane sorrow,
as one swerving, crashing into invisibility; where swans petition, a land of
woes, to realize the aches of Christ. I love the heaviness, to complain of
heaviness, to love the transitions; this inner shifting, that inner epiphany,
those multileveled degrees; to channel her soul, as one composed, as captured
by Gertrude the Great. We love for deaths, to rise through fevers, as
accustomed to living; where hell is infusion, a bruising of minds, as essential
as the blueprints. I beckon us not—as churning atmospheres, as one inclined to
cherish—the fallen heights, the rising lows, as enlove as our deep confusion.
I’m clotting darkness, to embrace darkness, an element of our Lord;—to paint
for highs, as beige as hybrids, as to struggle through the middles. It’s more
to die there, to carry such infection, where life is screaming forwardly; as
one torn, a need for exertion, as one to finally seize the grand prize; in
which is stress, this kef of woes, to feel some type of comfort; for life is
wild, with familiar threads, to know it for generations; and thus for agony,
the crying rain, that ashamed of joy—to course through flights, striving for
islands, where pain fences the shores. It’s born as radical, a wealth of
fractions, even a broken collar bone; to fever in grey, where hearts enthuse,
to lose such as normality; this thing misunderstood, as yearning for thoughts,
our inward parachute.
