We
stream through thoughts, seldom accounted for, to feature positions; for it was
love, until hell broke free, to call it pain.
Oh
the transparent, between each thought, to see an inverse of thoughts. I’m naked to love, the girth of freedom,
alive in that instance; to see us flourish, as daughter to mind, to plant each
word. Oh this yellow feeling, to want for heart-shapes—that manifest a pleasant
surface; but death has spoken, to capture the last phrase, to witness splinters
emerge. I can’t but purchase, this feudal light, as candid as the middle
finger; but reels for deepness, to adore the swan, despite the marshlands;
where silence is loud, for playing pretend, an elephant gnawing the middle
room. We’re shipwrecked and safe, to
jettison the cargo, to touch dry lands; where love is measure, to court for
wisdom, to mimic professors. The
lighthouse is flaming, spinning upon wings, to search for lone islands; on which
is pressure, to castle the miracle, a time for clarity.
I
love you this leaf, to float upon rivers, where an angel dwells; in which is
pain, to carry such crisis, as bold as necessary; for the hells are much, but
what the hell, when silence is murder. I maze the center, to enter the core,
bereft off seed-hood; in which for turmoil, plus a garden, an isle in a
psyche-bank. We’re overtime, the ink of carnations, your soul as silhouettes—to
pardon this grief, groping through years, to hear, I love you. We ever
scream for never, to course this fate, to inflate your destiny; for now to
know, the long goodbyes, the closets of bones, where pressure is hurt, to live
it taciturn, for screaming nostalgia.
Its twilight rain, upon blue nights, as reached in a moment of joy; but
hearts for love, to blossom the beige clouds, to touch the fey.
