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.