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.
