I
savor a dream, and so alive, to die the nightfall—as one with hells, as one to
glisten, a contour filled with jewels. We live as anxious, to do this thing,
alert like wolves; to fumble the heart, ever at ends, to choose between loves;
as to hold to both, this deep infraction, to ruin the prides. Oh the blunders,
to hold a position, as one totally correct. I can’t but laugh, to see us
fallin’, a symbol for fools, even a Proverb. We picture perfection, as perfect
as illusions, as perfect as our first kiss; to hide in secret, a life for every
world, as to hold it together. Its rapture this dance, as captured by morals,
as laughing at proprieties; for it’s the cards, that the dealer deceived, to
rescue the deaths; where hell is perfect, and heaven is perfect, perfected as
designed. We yearn the taboo, to live that edge, as pictured in a baby: the
grand gestures, the torn surprises, the longing of eyes. I laugh insanely, this
deep contentment, to then retreat—and even from self. Have we seen the mirror,
this tired reflection, screaming obscenities? I ask—as one that torn, to
swelter through prosecution—as inflicted on self. We cried to laugh, as our
voice cracked, as becoming hysterical. It’s truly the tales—to flicker a flame,
to feel the mystic, as one that far, a fantast in a jar, the cards of
neighbor’s. Tell the story, of heaven and hell, the cross of two worlds; to sip
for gin, to drench in lies, the cries of a dear friend; one as worthy, of more
allegiance, despite our guile. I couldn’t for see it, the tallest tales, to
reap the deepest pits; where love smiled, as one so righteous, to court her own
disaster; and this was me, for she rarely sees, the hands of her actions.
