Friday, April 29, 2016

Gnaw Upon Sugarcane

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.      

Immemorial times those feelings affected by lusts.

    It rarely falls as it should. In forcing syntax, one dies. So precedented; one dream those days, and nerves were fretting. Affected by l...