Symbols of Prose

There’s saintlike beauty, such mystic allure, such effervescence; where ensoulment is crucial. There’s metaphysical particles, studded in experience—a memory growing limbs. There’s a hurdle, buried in skyscraping, our hands cleaving to clouds; whereat, are dreams, this psychic nib, this freshet of events.

There’s touchstone love, outreaching doubts, draped in silken thoughts. There’s pathos—siphoned by ethos, as shimmering in logos. There’s affection, as far gathered as facts—this external treasure; as glimmer and garb, this inner caliber, as emotions and raindrops; where there’s a parrot, this internal symbol, repeating a series of sentences.

There’s us—this fugue of waves, drenched in G-Minor; albeit, voiceless, we hear it in gestures, a myriad of reasons for being right; but there’s beauty, the steepness of an article, where attention is concentrated; and there’s Precious—a mentor of the future, a keystone effusion; to have but three moments, where life’s a symphony, as to outlive three adventures.

There’s ascetic tears, whereby, grounded in devotion—the treasures of illumination; whereat, are mazes—reminiscent of passions—this favored intrusion; to jingle an apparition, enamored with souls—this tremulous encounter; as to wither in beauty, and rise in beauty—this chaotic mandate; where life is love, a fusion of subtleties—this driven conclusion.        

Internal Maze

We spin through cycles, afflicted with chaos, as grounded as two squirrels.

It’s difficult to manage insanity, bred through clarities, to miss it when it’s gone.

I filtered a fancy, to realize dominions, as suffering without tugging. It’s deep enchantment, as knowing aloneness, but prayed for by secrets. I fathom qualities, to imbue a swan, as thankful for a cygnet. It mustn’t be pain, this cultic interview, where every answer is wrong. We manufacture memories, for the sake of healing, as restructuring illusions. We die through life, as life through death, as the kef of anxieties; to hold but one smile, to have but one grain, to live a heartbeat as centered; for I’m falling softly, as rising gravely, addicted to the angst of faith. I know for fires, this inner séance, our outward scars. It must be tears, as one so beautiful, to pursue such chaos; where distance is law, the law of distance, webbed as a tension of treasures. We must be seen, as appreciated deeply, our hands reaching through cities.

I love a vision, this confusing maze, a woman as a mystery; where hell negotiates, as to assist heaven, as to mold preachers. It’s the deepest riddle, to fathom Job, as one weary of repenting prematurely; for this is chaos, to channel fear, where fear is rendered as appropriate.

I still find her, buried in concentration, this internal power; to love but a season, as spread so thinly, to wish for something permanent. There must be joy, this sudden feeling, as to request its presence; else delusion, this internal feud, this mental illusion. 

Flux

I’ve been here before—in this space—this intellectual sadness; born of infusion, longing for that dream, as driven through frustration; for I must confess—this sickly union, as two at deep resistance; to breathe as a fugitive, racing towards a mirror, as to see self and flee. Our lives are legacies, featured in twilight zones, whereby, this internal kinship.     I grabbed a cigar, for the days are sober, trailing this presence of angst: our names tracking us; our fire in need of fuel; our destinies embroidered upon a hidden cloth. I hear for words, this inner Ghost, alive the touch of heartbeats; but still confusion, to calm each thought, this moment to moment routine. It has its forces, this internal rift—this supernal adventure: to consider as unseen, as remembering kinship, a myriad that close to features. I watched it closely, this person peeking, as awakened fully. We hide in plain view, perceived as different, a world gravitating towards the unseen; as waltzing a passion, that abysmal entrance, as akin to self-knowledge; to usher a feeling, as amongst the gods, knitting an apparition. I’ve begun to wonder, as too to worry, of that inner magnitude; as to be unread, whereby, to carry loneness, where words fail to capture it. I now fathom—this deep shift, where simplicity is complex. I live with pains, as too the wonder of joys, wherefore, perception is slanted. I’m also a cynic, enlove with proofs, a chaser of this life called, Faith: to have but experience; to have died to see it; as one tatted with his life. It shouldn’t be pain, as rightly afflicted, as to know one’s errors; where glory is edification, as running through a desert, to wonder of this vibrant smoke.     We’ve tested time, tugging it backwards, where the past seems to elude us. It’s merely a dream, shadowed in splinters, as a modicum of joy; to have for reasons, to wrestle our alphas, to finally meet with disappointment: the free flowing leaves; the lilies in bloom; an orchid as a symbol for love; but more conditions, as to awaken and tussle—to strive for fractions; this glowing self, as pressured by life—as afraid of permanent feelings!     I saw a reflection, to know for humans—this measure of wisdom; as one seeking self, wrapped in this flux, harnessed from within: as deeply haunted; as infuriated with grays; as born to chaos.      

We Give Purpose

To have but one moment; this time to perish; as birth settles into a scream; to know for courage, this human condition, as outwitting emotions—one captured by a dream; it couldn’t be real—the elegance of love, the dignity of pain, the integrity of passions; to have but one tear, as focused as ambitions, to cherish but one moment! It couldn’t be real—as invested in life—your heartbeat as purpose; to dig out deaths, our emotions as tools—feathered as an angelic savior; but where was sorrow, as flesh of my bone, as souls were excavated! This couldn’t be us—as two owls—argus-eyed—suffering through a plethora of tensions; and it couldn’t be us—living as shadowed—by the auguries of pressure; and it couldn’t be us—reaching as lifelines, filled with expectations; for it mustn’t be us—as confused dearly, gripping for guidance—this deep abandonment; where drifting is easy, for saviors must depart, at least through self-prophecy. We lean for comforts—that removed from eternity—a person as but a moment; therewith, is fate—this cycle of scars, this seeking of a savior! Oh to come to terms; to love but the fever, as sheltered by the woes; this crying river, to rebuild souls, as two destined for eternity. It couldn’t be death, as giving such life, wherewith, are remarkable joys—as friendship ensues, our eyes as territories—our souls as dominions! Lights are, hereby, defined—as twofold entities, this paradoxical design; where parts are floating, apparent to minds, this greenhouse effusion; else for permanence, this permanent cycle, as beheaded by actions; to repeat a phrase, as lost to a whirlwind—The challenges of intimacy!—where this is angst, as dancing to perish, as the many jades the soul.  

There Lives a Force

I love us flying, as heart to soul, this graveyard thump; to know for nothing, this inner swan, digging for turquoise oil. This vibrant love, as pure as, Theresa, our inmost communication; as grand as psychs, as veiled as wisdom, this precious invitation. I love us dying, for such is rebirth, this fiery rapture; to feel this heart, thrusting chi, as to ignite a spiritual fever. Was it us—this fleet of omens, too afraid to sing! I love us more, this strange affect, as filled with fatigue; for pain is potent, this caution we can’t see, as one searching for Jesus. I felt a thump, to feel for presence—our essence glowing through windmills. It can’t be real, this patient force—this outlined majesty; as born to live, through a thousand deaths, this kef of flying souls. I remember her face—as asking favors, to bestow upon a swan. I heard her voice, as cleaving to flights—this woman twice his wisdom; if only for light, as to tiptoe a fulcrum—this spectrum of spirituality. It mustn’t be us, this inner fable, as real as fluttering chi; to see this wave, embedded in dreams, as hearing this Spirit. We thump a heart, as something so vague, to ignite a furnace; where love is sewn, as hurt tends to blossom, where arts are taken for granted. This thunder is us—this dream is us—this flame is eternal! I sit to ponder, this inner heart-flood, to reckon a sacred force; where love is vague, this natural affect, to maintain distance; so please ignite it, as never before, to surge and swarm through a billion hearts. We fathom magnitude, a ballad to a soul, as to picklock a cliff. It couldn’t be real, to feel this source, as charged as claret wine; to flip through tensions, as born to love, as to garnish such colors; where light is human, to infuse a dream, as one bleeding for closure.  

Vagueness as Entity

It couldn’t be love—this fluorescent blue—this cyan inflection; as born so vague, as crying in laughter, this breaking of voices. We died so early, to rise to glory, this feeling that crawls through us; as ever this tension, this vague algorithm, this exponential fury. It couldn’t be love—this mesto dream—this Artemis fever; to dance so gently, this abyss of passions, to caress this outward vision; as to flourish this heart, as seesawing souls—this skyward fantasy. Isn’t life ousia—this determined chase, where flame is but a confirmation? It mustn’t have been love—this deep ingestion, this world screaming for wings; but it must have been love, this inner whirlwind, a heart as a ladder; wherewith, are sentiments, this indebted feeling—musing a mental phantom; hereto, to live, a rainbow of crayons, this inner child vying so vaguely; as living through dice, as feeling so vulnerable, one etching out securities; as falling asleep, in arms of tempers, to morph into this feeling; where patience becomes love, and patience becomes sorrow, and love becomes a pleasurous dance; as to roam through vagueness, this portrait of fantasies, to awaken in this valley. It couldn’t be love—this spiritual fire, as longing beyond reasons—as sifting through passions, this festive of dreams, this gas—the fuel of a furnace—to breathe so vaguely, to live through abstracts—as one yearning for concrete; wherewith, are miracles, to identify love, to offset such vagueness; where reason settles, into a vineyard of fruits, where two nibble apricots; this fraction of concrete, to set aside logic, as to embark upon wings; this rising kiss, this febrile love, this inner net of vagueness.          

Needles

I fantasize, of this vague utopia, abandoned to feelings. It’s more illusion, such twisted realities, to imagine one kiss. We chime gently, this cultic affair, a room filled with saints. We pray and chant and read and rant—this vehicle of success! It couldn’t be real, this affectation, often rendered as folly; to have but five, this driven Shunga, that closer to transcension. We love as arcs, as throbbing emotions, wherewith, is adventure; to yell and scream, and hold and pray—this force of exhilaration! I remember pain, this inner peg, as potent as a first glance; to want for love, as purely internal—for she never spoke! I love us more, this torn appreciation, where rain has become momentous. It shouldn’t be us, this vague utopia, screeching and scratching at sanity; whereat is friction, this kind observation—this keen intuition; to scramble a future, for sheer delights—to know someone cares. I sip and relish, as to relish and sip, addicted to this Ghost. It’s truly a challenge, for one so eager—to define every element; where sorrow dwells, and faint illusions, to misconstrue reality. I have a vision, the vision she has, to touch the face of God. It couldn’t be real, this powerful source, aiding souls on their journey; to pray with fever, as fully alive, that close to breaking down. I love us more, this splinter of sights—that lost for words; hereto, are subtle facts, abandoned to justice, as yearning for this phantom; to have for misery, as wrapped in bliss, this inner tug-a-war. It couldn’t be purple, for years of introspection—this turquoise sky; but truth is living, to evade the immediate, as pushing too emphatically; where this is life, this sheer deception, as to laugh in private. I’m a bit too grand, this essence of dreams, to impart to a swan. It mustn’t be real—this vast infusion, staring at ruby eyes; and yet is lives, hereto, a folly, as to expect too much.      

The God in Us

We’re embedded in a spark, this lark of chants—this art of flickering flames; about which, are spirits, wherewith, are songs, driving us into infinity; to voice communion, a room so empty, to enter our communities. We find this thing, this intoxicating essence, to ease such loneliness: this grand affection, our source of intuition, as floating through souls; to leave a spark, the space of humans—this self-communication; as grounded with wings, to have but moments, such to expand as entities; where hell ponders souls, as for plucking feathers, where something ironic occurs. This mustn’t be life—the grayness of being, to which, are lavish wings; but why this word, this glorious fuse, as to deny misfortune; at which, are thoughts, such critical lines, to see such sickness; as born to aid, a future of patients, addicted to self-medication. We’ve never cried in vain, where spirits are loose, as one face to face with a phantom; here-at, is wisdom, as found for years, as roaming Jerusalem; only to reappear, especially, to self, guided by this ruling flame; for there’re stars by day, and smoke by night, this internal fire, manifested outwardly. I can’t but see her—this fusion of light, as structured as sophistication. I sigh her name, the opus of a swan, to see her as one sees a daughter; but it couldn’t be real, as to touch through chi—a myriad of souls; as to climb through darkness, pleading for a smile, if only to see her in glory; for this is love: to have seen nothing, but filled with faith, believing in this inner dimension. How to resist it—this flaming castle, this blended reality, where all becomes a system of activities. I sigh and pause, skating into a dream, to greet the God in us!             

Inner Chantress

I have this fear—this needs to speak, even to a phantom. It’s grave in silence—this portal of dreams, engaged in gestalt techniques; as not to panic, this broken chapter, where words slant perception.     I feel encryption—to rummage through toils, as to restrain self; for shapes are forming, wherewith, are passions, this infinite mural. It couldn’t be life, as love is vague, a soul at a pulpit; to feature memoirs, draped in armoires, this simplistic chaos. Our design is labor, to capture millions, our salaries our distinctions—as even identity, this upper-class rain, our futures painted upon a check-stub.     Was it pain—this vast adventure, to ruin an auburn summer?     I ask—this inner chantress, mourning at a bedlight; for love was gray, as spoken in concretes, to utter the word, Never; where time spoke of promise, this outward opera, as disappointing as childhood; to which, was chaos, this immortal friction, to precipitate love.     I stand a precipice—this long infusion—this angelic anguish! It couldn’t be real, a life of this magic, a group of selfish mystics; as dying for pleasures, this short retreat, this ember flickering afar; to grasp and fly—this realm of eternities—forever this distance!     I can’t but love her, as awash’d in mischief—this chief of passions; for pain is graphic, if only to fix it—this thing of feathers; where this is grief, to read and panic, where fevers stir. We stand agog, as to grog a mind—this fission of fallen parts. I must confess it, to know we lived it—this dreaded disgust; in which, it brews, this face of intellect, veiled in sheer distrust. We move in stealth, this vibrant hell, as to shoot a star, this mandala affair!     It couldn’t be real—this favored dream—our inmost enchants.        

Dear Swan

There’s a technique, founded in Namaste, to awaken a fire; whereto, are flames, this inner specter, as such cultic waves. We die to live it—this ancient swan—reborn to life! I see for wings, this floating sky, a relic of purposes. It couldn’t be real, our dear enigma, as to flourish a thousand wishes; where love is crucial, as one outfoxed, to break parentheses; as living so freely, a nib to a thought, to wildfire penmanship—this inner calligraphy, this whetstone grace, and chased by visions; to have but one, this inner art, this florid perspective.     Things are crooked, as known, unbearable, a tension to straighten forth; wherewith, are views, as if she couldn’t see—this inconsistent wall. I pause!

It mustn’t be life—this studded dream, as to envision a swan; whereto, are rules, a bit capricious, founded in years of advice; this slanted thing, this froward scream, as to witness such flux; but what for love, this unselfish star, as grounded as a footprint. I ask—as one partial, to that found directly; as to witness, this difficult change, where many opt for chaos; for love is crucial, a torn exhibition—this internal volume. We embed souls, as screaming in silence, as sores awaken stars. We watch to fathom, this future’s quest, astonished by affectation; to see a soul, as sacred as sin, to garner the secrets of trespass! It couldn’t be real—a swanic sage, as engaged as lawyers; to finally dance, as shown for tempers, this furious swan.   

Whirlwind-fire

His eyeglasses are smudged. His style is too subtle. There’s something to him—this man of visions, this aloof spirit. It couldn’t be real, a stranger in a temple, wreaking mischief; to see for persons, this moody woman, affected by each segment; this stately soul, adrift a subcontinent, needling at a subconscious. Oh for such distance, whereby, impatience, wherewith, this expectation. Silence becomes law—for he never knew—this magnitude of affairs; as sitting in crosses, this gust of agony—this monthly outcome; as ever to tussle—with volts and demons, this trope for traumas. He spoke in earnest, to notice a shift—they pardon psychoses!—this psychotic air, as able to mimic, to go for deeper that nature. Its picturesque passions—as driving his soul, as shattered for mercies. The cries are loud—as ever to signify, this closeness to the finish line; as born to cherish, this art of perishing, as monthly a new visitor. He wonders the hell, they must incur, therewith, a sense of coldness; but oh this woman, as nice as grandma, to induce a spell. It becomes deductive, peppered by induction—this festoon agenda! We watch for justice, as words reveal, the errors of temperaments; to chance, therein, the integrity of affairs, to tread this land of trust! He couldn’t find it, as often it changes, a myriad in one woman: the deepness of sighs; this internal whirl-fire; these eyes which hide the trauma. It must be pain, as to fathom pain, this art of inner probes; if must to die, to age with grace, to picklock a hurdle; for this is grace, to carry a monster, while glowing in silence; where days are years, as months are decades, to finally evolve; whereat, are tears, this embellished joy, as to manipulate pains. It couldn’t be real, this inner rasp, this broken kernel, to perform with such grit.  

By Glance

It’s the miracle of screams, to meet by glance—this hopeless love; whereat, is pressure, this jimpy affection—forever her dreams! I lunged at life, this sober rain, to analyze intuition; but how to vet, this dangerous affair, manipulating chi. We strive for deepness, this gulf of emotions, composing a thetic masterpiece; where quaffing is legal, a soul of burgundy eyes, aflame that fatal kiss; to pardon infraction, if so be our test, or else, to feel such friction. I saw her—this different woman, as kept as decency; whereby, this prose—even this smaze, sorting through soot and sugar.

I heard a voice,

this interior voice,

this interior flood.

It couldn’t be real, this dropping of hearts, as to pause for seconds; as yet it lives, this inner connection—this saintlike affair; where wisdom cries, as to feel for boxes, as wanting to adventure life. It’s a hopeless dream, founded in a phrenic fuse, as to misinterpret love.

Dig not the sanctum, wherewith, are passions, and, hereafter, is tragic; but this is love, as put together, where others take notations; but what of years, this desert-like affair, when love was hard to reach? It’s truly a miracle, where others mold a vessel, as to lose a vessel; where times revert, a batter at base, longing to return; for home is comfort, this place of love, as conditional as blueprints; wherewith, are morals, a tier of standards, to restructure self. 

Don’t You Remember

to feel this life, chasing beige stars, trekking this vast in-between; with wants to vanish, if merely in moments, to caress southern comforts. we can pierce the skies, through sheer concentration, wherefrom, this art; to die for love, this driven womb, as intelligent as, Simone, as clever as, Virginia Woolf. It mustn’t be us, this inner constellation, this whirlwind of merry-go-rounds; it mustn’t be death, to clog our lungs, as struggling through a blackdamp—to hold with such fervor—this miracle affair—the boldest phantoms! we flip a coin, our darkest emotions, to prescient this life; as born to live, as scuffing dice, this aged old prophecy. I remember innocence, cloaked in deception—this fear of abandonment; to grip variety, as losing self—a child in the wings. I fathom earaches, while pride swells, as sorting through briers; where death is flagrant, this inner fugitive, while danger lurks. It mustn’t be us, so late in life, wrestling over a decade of woes. It’s more a millennia, this fevered affair, to loathe his guts; where essence suffers, while souls crumble, as scrabbled as hidden messages. I needed love, to perish this love, as opened as a pair of wounds. I needed us, this fair attempt—to outwit tragedy; therewith, are scars, which structure brains—that inner fire—as desired as unseen, this math of mazes, to read it spelled in glitter! It mustn’t be us, buried in turmoil, this game of pretends; where bodies speak—this velvet language, an alphabet of symbolic letters; to pull at unawares, that innocent soul, as to ruin our motives. it must have been us, as holding so vaguely, this thing we soon released, this aberrant love! It was easy to vanish, for death was so prominent—the wounded flames!—as torn as justice, or one man’s jury, or rather, a judge that fails to study. Oh where for mercy, to yearn for comforts, as forgiven a thousand times!—                

It Must Be Us

You’re a miracle sprouting—an informal dream, tugging at sentiments. I space out at times, this fountain of daydreams, as pouring into a fantasy. You exhaust love, to unfetter love, this bold mystery of love. I wanted for something, to ask your pain, as you replied with tears. We blend daiquiris, this metaphor of tempers, surging for merging into a whirlwind. We’ve tasted fruits, as reaching for fruits—this bowl of pressures; for love is a dream, cast upon souls, as vast as suffering. You inspire faiths, to undo science, as creative as love. I pull us closer, this verbal exchange, as for sculpting dreams; to chance this angst, thereto this heart, adrift a millennia. It hurts to love, for moods are arts—this portrait of music; as born too soon, as treasuring ethics, as born with morals; where life molded tendencies, this inner violin—this mental harp. I tire of doubts, as showing expressions, to which, you address. It must be love—this unsettling affect, to purchase for two. I love your body, an extension of genes, as born of mind; to flourish this passion, this magnificent dream, combing our visions. Its sheer enchantment—this internal sphere—this world of oil paintings. Orchids are singing. Puppies are nursing. Our angels are rejoicing. This is life—a series of petals, imprinted by love; as born to perish, as born to resurrect, as nurtured by roots; to have us love, this pair of deer eyes, this internal opiate. I love us more, as days become passions, as dreams concretize. Its outward aspirations—chaotic order—this melodic dirge; as sad with meaning, as love is ocean deep, as pains travel minds. It must be us—for souls have changed, in favor of eternity. We opted for us, an eyelash to a pore, a finger to a nail, a wrist to an arm.           

Love Chain

Merely a glance, as love swarmed, this affected heart;—to die this life, as failing to grief, that touched—a moment!

Oh for instant love, as grave as death, this internal nightmare; for love knew nothing—the magnitude of love, as dying this love.

He couldn’t see, that deep illusion, a glance turning backwards; to see her dancing, the slightest gestures—his heart a miracle!

We rushed affairs, but a moment to talk, a mind courting delusions; to imagine girth, this swarm of bees, enlove with passions; as throbbing in poesy, this melic cry, this thetic mandate.  

He couldn’t love her—this favorite pearl, for nothing’s about science; this outward objective, to drift through eyes, a second of love—a master of sex, a slave of goodness, to complicate a beating drum! It couldn’t be real—a room filled with reasons, as to pursue a flower; and still it dies, this manic passion, as reaching as a heart-thought. She heard his name, chanted in silence, to spring forth at unawares. She prayed in earnest, as clouds descended—a rush of waves. They perish this love, as born this love; but it mustn’t be, as it must to be—this long held distinction—this feral crisis. 

Oh for hidden cries—to cherish a verse, to change a meter; where all is panic, this inner affect, graphed upon falling skies.  

She found him dreaming, as damp with fissions, this matter she must resist; for times are classic, a life of dreaming, to finally arrive; where love is pictured, as perfect a tear, this flux of childhood dreams.

Reality swarms—as killing a high, the pain of pleasurous passions; as to admit a folly, as grounded in folly, a repeated heartbeat. He couldn’t but see—the gore of love, a vein to an angel!

It must exist—the gosh of love, as painted upon utopias!

Something We All Grasp

He’s unsung, as lost to dangle, a fist full of hives. I meet him daily—this mirrored affair, as to ponder a psych. It couldn’t be myth, where a tender gesture, triggers physiognomy: this mental somatic, to speak too much, as to repeat a cycle. The hiss is loudness, this internal warfare, drifting into years. It’s barely abated—this bashing hilt, a method of paralyzing. I found such joy—in gestalt practice, to become so numb. I’m want to warn, but growth is subtle, this thing of soot and tears. It’s a blackdamp, to triumph in fragments, pulling at professors: to have but a moment, codified in myths, praying to mathematics. I hark to spirits, as becoming a parrot, to nurture such wisdom. It’s more than science, this masterpiece, as failing humanity; where life is grim, as for sudden joy, this pendulum of affairs. I speak to us—this wealth of pain, as too heavy to subside; and more a perfect face, as eager to help, too conscious for a heartbeat. It’s knitted in cults—this lighted adventure, evoked by swans. We sit abed, chanting for solace, where gods arrive. Our tears are written, to one day see, each one playing a chorus. We’re amid humans, as desperate as science, featured in mental films; where life is an ante, this arid desert, to applaud a cactus. I felt for bolted, to lose a claim, that closer to what’s hidden; this inner self, this flagrant person, as enigmatic as a first glance; for time is required, to un-cozen impressions, where a pearl might become a thorn. I must confess—the greatest joys, this thing of persons; to unzip a soul, at sudden a moment, to thump hearts. I envy the perfect, for this is tears, a person without vision; where sight is grand, this forbidden season, to fail and fade into bliss.  

It Lives With Us

We never tire of wanting. It’s attributed to nature—this churning affair. We never tire of our ruses, as often see-through, where anger appears. There’s irritation, this irksome nature, needling and nicking and pricking and probing our souls. It’s found in genetics, even academia, this feeling of discomfort, where doubt becomes systematic, while faith ruptures designs. We can’t ignore it, this inner mirror, where life appears to itself. It evolves through vision—as never to tire of seeing. It morphs through hearing—as never to tire of hearing. We feel its motion, this irritation for others, especially, where things appear too simple: this outward classification.

I couldn’t find her, as one yearning for depth, where simplicity ruled at large. I couldn’t see her, as if the canvas was blank, as if something were hiding. This becomes life—where depth is shunned, as one claiming for depth; but I, too, suffer from a dearth—founded in universal knowledge; where youth consumed its soul, occupied with disease, addiction, and even abuses. Depth was assertion. Love was sketchy—for training was scarce. We imagine things when confronted by something unusual. For instance, if our neighbors are flourishing, at least in appearance, while we are suffering spiritual, mental, and physical poverty, we make comparisons, thereby, determining that something is deeply wrong. This sets aflame critical thoughts—where this inner tension emerges.

We tire of tiring—this whirlwind of angst, grounded in anxieties—as feeling discomfort, as shaded by elements, rooted in intelligence. The deeper the soul, the deeper the stress! We feel shadowed. It awakens with us. It sips coffee, admires life, as reminding us of time. It’s a pendulum of tensions, evolving with minutes, this thing we fight to hamper.      

Household Luggage

To see you, holding a flame, where all is made simple: I’m moved slightly, as one complicated, as one out of touch. Our innocuous dance, as generating motion, where gestures are subtle: I follow norms, somewhat aloof, this thing of attachments. This shouldn’t be life—as affected deeply, by mental footprints; as drawn to a moment, this fleeting second, as to halt a thought. They measure joy, to bombard presence, as to offend serenity. I pause and flee, and flee and pause, alert to sensations: this inner thump; this resonance; this inner person—watching as to mold, even to learn, as measuring the overseer. We’ve crossed a line, this immeasurable line, where pulling back is detrimental; for life is growth, as roots give birth to branches, which give birth to leaves, as such deciduous parts, this essence of flux, where something is continuous. We chase this something—this aloof comfort, as it pushes us to deeper heights. I couldn’t to fathom, the steepness of darkness, a household of secrets; as raised therein, to find a home therein, as cleaving to something familiar. We perish this way—as to flourish this way, molding something old with something new. I must to fly, as grounded in pressures, as to grapple with each wall. They form through youth, compounded by adulthood, to become one grand adventure; where love is thwarted, as souls are haunted, wherefore, times are challenging. I know an image, as too put together—as causing sights to wonder: “Should I aspire; Are they normal; Is the grass greener?” It’s truly a measure, by which are realities, to spring forth in May; but this is life, settled in feelings, as constant calculations.      

Inner Mirrors

I drift to find you; this marvelous swan; as one enchanted deeply; and ever by this life, where attractions are new, adventures are sacred—this life of treasures.

I remember folly, as one jettisoned, for all failed perfection; this imperfect essence, searching for perfection—this stranger of mirrors.

This path of faith, this human condition—this conundrum!

I must confess; for love haunts this heart—where today is life, this immeasurable love.

We shelter secrets, to watch them unfold, to measure adequacies; wherewith, are lies, as vetted impure, but supporting decisions. It’s sheer paradox, as to protect the youth, where ethics frown upon deeds. We screech and squirm, searching for exits, content with overcast; but this is pain, where crystals fetter, as to clog the horizon. I see us hellbound, wherefore, a furious soul, wailing the injustice; but this is angst, this mental nausea, compelling chaos. Our dreams are pure, though flooded with ingratiation, wherefore, views are skewed neatly. I can’t but drift—to moments of gray, whereto, truth was present; but how to arrive, as knowing arrival, where perception is personal. I loved a dream, uncertain of dreams, as to manufacture dreams. It couldn’t be felt, for it never existed, albeit, it lived: those inner cries, those prosaic fires, as one giving through prayers. I know a venture, as rooted deeply, as to master this art; but this is gray, for passion is fever, and known to go astray; where chaos is attraction, this want to heal, albeit, from a distance; as to wrestle self, deeply distraught, searching for a moment of peace. I knew but a name, peering at camouflage, this image struggling for breath. I heard but a sound, a subconscious sound, and sutured a sound; where stitches came loose, and dreams unraveled, and a ghost scribbled her image. Our tides float to seas; our rivers are jammed; and thus, our caves are rinsed of secrets; herewith, are passions, leaking into public, as spoken through our contours. Something is living, as dying for expression, this marvelous noun; to have but seconds, adrift an inner tension, to rest at crossroads; where love is vacant, and love is pure, a household of dreams.  

It Mustn’t Be Real

To feel life—its intricate makeup, this piercing of puzzles; to claim it as joy, wrestling with contradiction, as feeling peaceful, and still, yearning for deeper serenity. I touched illusions, this spacecraft of adventures, hereby, lost in madness; to travel something sacred, and still, out of focus, a fingerprint running. It couldn’t be us—as walking through hints, as nearly exaggerating life; and more it is—this inner channel, where thoughts are tenuous—where hearts are peaking! I yearn for essence, hereby, as saturated—as becoming deficient—our public square! It mustn’t be us, wherewith, are roots, tugging at mystery. I must be dreaming—to witness her eyes, as adapted to this life, as wailing for warriors, this collage of soldiers, spiritually sacrificed! It couldn’t be real, this human condition, as destined for paradox; whereat, are patches, knitted in feelings, this wave of intensities; and it couldn’t be real, this Job-like test, hereby, to feel inadequate; and it couldn’t be real, as never imagined, to love at first glance. There’s a vision, longing for fruition, as reaching through our souls. It outlines our passions, whereby, it conditions our minds—as ever squirming through mazes. It mustn’t be us, this inner refocusing, this tendency towards selfishness; to have for meaning, this brave intention, saturated with frustrations. Contentment is a challenge—for it must be rooted—as acquired in one’s youth; else, for struggles, this furious chase, where more is not quite enough. I’ve witnessed mockery, as embracing a new venture, as to bring thoughts to a halt. It mustn’t be us—as to perish to find it, as perfecting personalities—where one sees gray, a bit affronted, by this mutual affair—where first views offend!  

Wringing Out the Cloth

We study life, as to suffer ourselves, pointing at other’s mirrors. It couldn’t be real: a family of addicts, a gene for illness—this destined tragedy. It’s grim enough, to live in secrets—compelled to confess: the hidden madness, that edge of travesty, those eyes that elicit rain. It couldn’t be real: this romantic nature—suited for agonies, this theologian’s terror: to come to terms, as to see self adrift, painted as pictured pangs. We dread introspection, this hypersensitive mind, a pillowcase for guidance; to live a moment of joy, to escape condition—but a time to wander!

We study life, while scratching ceilings, as sudden for a breakthrough; herewith, is courage, to exit Plato’s cave, to entertain shadows.

It struck a nerve, those constant gestures, as to guard one’s subconscious; where it couldn’t be real—this subtle vexation, these stars adrift, this skiing turmoil, these pretentious dungeons; as to laugh in anguish, that silent mist, permeating one’s retinas.

We watch for wings, that inner glowing, as depicted in one’s aura—to have as conscious, this centered dream, to efface our traumas; where joys surface, to witness humanity, this spiritual effusion: to challenge chaos, with disorderly order, this wave of paradoxes.

We study life, this existential web—from souls to tragedies—trekking through sulfur, this trope for passions, as dying through woes. It couldn’t be real—this mirror of sights, spinning on a merry-go-round. It couldn’t be real—this first grip, a run of one’s life! 

It Appeared as Innocent Faith

I see us flourishing, in this land of faith, stumbling for grins; this romantic land, as captured in serenity, these two so distant from chaos. It’s a joyous land, as filled with undercurrents, this world featured in psyches. He hears an echo, as to ignore himself, ever that thrown into worship. Time presents fortune—these inner secrets, this warming force. This voice is walking, as syllables upon waves, where God befriends man; but what for Us, these times of mystery, prior to this fallen chaos? Something is nudging, this feral god, as for want of worship; to impart wisdom, this calling for power, to imbue man with storms. He draws closer, to witness affliction, as too deep to retreat. Some nights are lightless, this inner whirlwind, grappling with faith; for how this magic, for one so keen, as to rarely offend? He learns mechanics, to climb paradox, as to find this endless war. It couldn’t be real, where reality is faith, as for one so for another! He searches for kinships, as to increase power, if only to extract allies. They remain distant, as to ward off forces, as to avoid this deep creek; but all are tethered, too far in to relent, as too, most carry indignation; for morals become concrete, as too, insights become law—this inner reason to persevere. Its communion—this clad of flux, kneeling for gripping his guts; this fiery trial, extended from level to level, a countenance that betrays a psyche; where all is sightless, until that moment, where forces travel; to meet us come dawn, as in-tuned deeply—engrossed in this investigation. He takes for nature, this sequence of events, as ready to exonerate faith; but pressure builds, to push passed lights, as to wonder of motives. It mustn’t be this thing, where two are one, where branches are intelligent; but this is life, this torn force, embedding its nature.

Shadows of Salvation

She threshed his soul; this hush-hush affair; as so many vivid emotions.

He dies in private, this dripping chaos, this public affectation; to give a false name, these links of madness, to live his asylum; whereat, is terrors, this angry force, this knocking upon mental doors. It’s our lightless light, this religious paradox, to tiptoe comforts; as born to war, an infant crawling, while smelling fumes. What is a thimble, for a moment in space, where souls become raw? Our storms are radical, this dormant affair, peeking as to destroy; wherefore, this frustration, as seen in chains, where ashes float upon rivers. He journeys a trail, among so many valleys, as to pick a path; but lie to us—if not forever—to manufacture this joy; even coddle us, with a tear of untruths, while protecting an inner child. He feels unshod, as this infant—in desperate need of guidance; so to gauge our failings, as never alone, this inward haunting; as days of war, to enter a public square, where like-minds bare witness. But oh to glory, this faultless faith, as radical as haunted dreams; to exit his pit, to ponder an essence, wailing in an inner sanctum; these prophetic cries, to haunt his caves, to become this alien; as founded in tales, such brazen woes, to rest for comforts. It’s our deepest light, as challenged by darkness, this friction steady to morph! She threshed his soul; this hush-hush affair; as so many emotions. Our inner gates—become planets, this house of mirrors—to see resistance, as chiseling joys, this tender process. This couldn’t be life, as life to become, as for a score of secrets; to invest in life, our price for knowing, opened to such forces: a prophet in a belly, a mute as a priest, even a Rabi as a sacrifice; to ponder such charms, as to enter as willingly, this trail of mishaps.      

Lakes of Introspection

It’s our gravel of friction, this inner gnawing, to envision a sister; as born to fey, this lively secret, wherewith, are fancies. To perish so often, thereby, a strategist, as filtered through pain! He couldn’t walk it, as forced to walk it, hearing his stomach growl. He met her by fate—her countenance as manic, this hypo-tension. They chimed suspiciously, an attic of privacies, that distant to touch. It couldn’t be essence, this torn infraction, as to pause through verses. This life of joys, as scraping a soul, where moods shift; this vibrant light, to grow with each line, as A equals Z. These are proofs, to witness troubles, this inner inflection; to wrestle daily, yearning for solitude, if only to fix for broken; this chasm of dreams, to finally relent—this imperceptible angst. It merely is—therewith, a star, as glowing beyond reach; where panic grew, as to wonder for months, this culture of hidden cameras. He couldn’t to fathom, this deep infliction, at times a brilliant smile; to be that person, if even in public, devoid of self-consciousness. It’s, hereto, a dream, as thereby, a fact, that essence permeates personality; to hold a torch, as nearby a lake, as to evaporate tears. This puddle is ours, this curse to rue, as one pulling our rubies. He thought for love, this impetuous pain, to frighten this inner mirror. This born again mystic, wondering of roots, this system of rituals; as crazed as sanity, this valley of interventions, a yogi on a treadmill; as flickering flame, this one time event, because one grew defensive. He pardoned a craving, to claim for siblings, this Sybil type mechanic; as planting gravel, this distant release, to yell, Eureka. It couldn’t be life, this ambivalent reality, as nursing something unreal…

but more to flame, this inner element, as frequent as heartbeats; as never to hold, this inner kinship, to see it in others; whereby, to hold, this flagrant scar, at odds with contemplation; if but a decade, as grieving alone, punctured by a room of consciousness. He couldn’t but fly, this inner dimension, as if ruined by justice; to hold that page, to know for wrong, as to long for a different outcome. There’s a vacant tear, to know for not—this passage of agony; to sit in stillness, that closer to love, this person dwelling within; as claiming power, to incite pressures, as yearning for balance; where truly it lives, this inner overseer, as proven resilient. Our years have climbed, this infinite ladder, as nearly half way high; where such a claim, defeats for infinite, as to finally arrive. He loved her more, to call her father, for he, too, was absent. They phone in spirit, this inner examination, to realize reality. It’s bedded with jewels, this outward expression, this distance from our worlds; as feeling detached, as challenging life, this invisible presence; but more to mirrors, to witness self, as an extinction of this inner force. It couldn’t be pain, to draw forth a legend, as to reject such a method; whereto, are roots—that define existence, as responsible for success; wherefore, is anger, this channel of darkness, as needed as pausing breath; to perish in parts, as to flourish in degrees, this woman a fraction of her parents; but it couldn’t be real, this terror of events, as deliberate as bathing; to feel for destiny, this series of tattoos, as to live as partly an outcast; where pain creeps, to stimulate madness, as one finally alive; where it mustn’t live, this inward affliction, as to aid a nation of souls; but this is life, this cryptic core, pushing this inward self; to yearn for wholeness, our vaguest dreams, as lost to fey.             

Swan Pressure

My dearest swan-priest; our calm has settled, the moon is bloody, adrift our notions; to panic come sunrise, to worry come sunfall, this festive of pains; but I beckon gods, this internal white magic, as blended with psalms. Its twilight zones, to piece this puzzle, as to wonder of ethics; this thing of ought, to behave in sequence, alive for but a moment; to then gaze—into something morbid, as to live this life; but oh for love, this absent kiss, to ignite an inner flame. Partake of life, this outward chalice, as to grieve in silence; wherewith, are jewels, to compose a future, drifting through jasper moods. There’s stardust, as upon a star, as disgusted with disappointments; for it looks so grim, to speak with hearts, to learn for fortune; hereby, are scars, as left to swoon, but our product is rain. There’s steadfast trauma, this sleepless web, as inner segue; this cultured frenzy, for a thousand winks, grooming our feathers. I want for deepness, this steep enchant, to shatter ignorance; where friends are few, as coffins are many—this inmost love. It couldn’t be real, our wildest whispers, as for wine and wafer; this torn mishap, this pleat of spells, to infuriate our swan; therewith, is rage, our furies of hell, to see a tremendous disjunction. It mustn’t be real, to anger a vine, as to offset a swan; but this is life, to outwit turmoil, despite the circumstance. I’m black with passion, as light to faith, this sage leaping from a cliff; as to mock this science, as to hail our forbidden, this crane of adventure. It’s a bit creative, to jog intellect, our journey for an antidote; hereto, a thorn, aching our foibles, our quest—a heart of kneeling; to push us forward, this tropical leaf, this gale of adventure; as purpose to soul, as root to grain, this outward expression; but I love this grit, our courage of honor, as gnawing upon Eden’s fruit. 

Paradise Ignores Crevices

What for this life, as stranded to disaster, that closer to kissing; where it couldn’t be real, this inner friction, to gaze at running eyes. I love for absence, as this inner world, where all is probable. It wasn’t us, fluttering a heart, as to push sorrow; and it wasn’t us, scratching at souls, as to will a fortress. I’m ever that closer, to clumping grass, as to nurture a butterfly; these beige wings, this dark tint, this ruby castle; as to love a phantom, as swooping within, to enliven a heart throb. It mustn’t be real, this fever of phantoms, to excavate caves. I wish to go deeper—as dying this life, where joy is a friend; this marvelous woman, though cut and abused, as to maintain disposition. It must be tears, this tetras affair, as to dig so deeply. The waves have channeled, as so detached—from a beating heart; to give a laugh, where laughter is sin, this thing needed desperately; to have for moments, a reason for force, to endure this coming session. I love you born, ever this rebirth, as standing so distant; but this is closeness, to reign these eyes, a bit too close to punish. It couldn’t be real, as to witness, Trethewey, knitting every sentence; and it couldn’t be real, this want for wants, as the want of wants; where death is cycles, as seen in bibles, this far away wisdom. I’ve come to you, as pleading for secrets, to garner a response; this cryptic language, as uttered in spirit, these dice fretting a psyche. I heard a cry, while sipping life, the wails of an inner soldier; wherewith, is pain, this never for closure, to attempt for neutral. It mustn’t be us—this long goodbye, as mourning our circumstances; to see for measure, our deepest fears, staring at naivety; to have for hurts, this inner world—curling in a dream!

When She Couldn’t Be!

He wanted for greatness, to find for mercy—this inner tension;

to have joy, this feral woman, this torn instinct.

It couldn’t be real, to hold for secrets, this woman in a shell;

as if for life, this inner campfire, blazing in private quarters.

He loved her more, this outer sorrow, as perceived as humble;

to chime with violence, this buried essence, as thrown as biblic science.

We live it blindly, to know for nothing, scratching at scabs.

He had to feel it, to meet her once, this woman he died for;

as flesh to bone, this cryptic affair, to listen to an inner voice.

She took to madness, this valiant dance, at once a fugitive.

It couldn’t be real, this craving for liquor, to meet a stranger

—after years of love, this mental covenant, bent on destruction;

to find for gods, this length of terror, an orgasm in a glass.

I met her thrice, this vibrant vixen, as alive as shadowed death.

We loved afresh, as born to perish, where earth gave the ghost.

It mustn’t be real—this loving charm, such beauty as poison;

to have for comforts, this moment of valves, spinning through infinite lines.

We must retreat, as to gain composure—this woman as a dream;

for life is madness, this inner paradox—our deepest confliction;

to love but thrice, this skyward banner, as nearly unconscious.

I see us clearly, imbued with liquor, as chiming greatly, to forsake our neighboring arms.

I love us more, this breaking of doors, searching for a preconception;

as dying boldly, to hear each word, this drizzle of sentences.

He took for courage, to tame this fortune, as to lose his sanity.

It couldn’t be real—as to love a monster, that close to breaking home;

but this is life, our bravest endeavor, that closer to seeing self;

where love is death, our deepest claim, our deepest love.  

We Admire Our Breaking Points

We converse as spirits, this inner communication, this vibrant vibration; wherewith, are scars, even as measures, as to determine powers; for what is pain, but earnest segue, traveling through gate-lights. It mustn’t be us, for this brief meeting, where powers swarmed our hearts. Oh to never touch, as enchanted fully, with something beyond measure; this inveterate glee, fraught in sensations, this inner communication; for yet to yearn, thrown into graphics, this magic of innocence. We give to perish, as dead-alive, to soar with giants; this fuse of visions, to master darkness, to realize this dilemma; as born to friction, such changing moods, to embrace a nation of mystics. It couldn’t be purple, as seen as turquoise, these burgundy eyes. It cries to speak, this inner language, founded in concentration; to outlive death, though courted by death, as death is segue; wherewith, is fire, this sudden flash, preceded by a black force. We lie to hide, this inner dwelling, as confused about life; herewith, are troubles, this outward lantern, this fearless countenance;—too much deception, this crime of passions, to excavate a dark light; but what are we, as formed in images, as forgetting there was life? It couldn’t be real, this psych in grains, as aflame in sorrows; to purchase chi, through mere this gift, saturated in concentration; to dance gently, as morphing violently, as to charter a point. I used to laugh, a bit confused, ashamed of not knowing; as now to ponder, as lost to souls, pulling at a psych; to know for dreams, this wretched power, as this core giving life; to bend through waves, these caves of anger, as needed through breaking points. It mustn’t be us, as to enchant such souls, infatuated with psychotics; for our points are shattered, to go to this place, as to live this essence; hereby, unbroken, to push passed limits, to see both dimensions; to do as you would, as yearning for traumas, to rescue this fallen self; as to become insane, guided by psychs, as to learn to manage as fully gray. It couldn’t be real, this fever of souls, captured in a subtle nuance; to perish insanity, as to rise so sanely, that closer to digesting mystery; wherewith, are eyes, to claim for perfect, a bit afraid.          

Love Beyond Love, This Richness of Never

We must be careful to comfort love. We must exhaust love, this tenuous propane.

I found us distant, as dying through life, this forbidden dream; somewhat captured, to travel a vision, our names so imperfectly. Our root was weary, that weary of watching, those subtle features. You knew your mirror, for wrestled at an early age, stressed by depression; this heavenly glow, permeated with paradox, desperate not to utter, Oxymoron. We died with friends, this feeling alone, unable to grapple nuance; this fiery fortune, fevered as forever, frantic to outlive such grief; wherewith, are happy times, a partner to perish, peaking at moments unforeseen;—so I found us distant, these walks of life, as born incompatible; for who dies to live, to attach an outcast, despite a myriad of letters; where woman differs, to change in an instance, gripping to power. It’s our short goodbye, our miniature dreams, our petit hellos; as treated with disdain, to love much for more, as needing approval. Its mystery this pain, an uncultured error, filled with cultivation. This movie is dancing, as paved in insecurities, too distant to pitch a crumb. I’m something different, a bit displeased, wrestling with dissatisfaction; wherewith, are values, this inner theologian, this far-reaching ethicist—to have come so far, as rooted in conflicts, able to love your essence; but never a dream, as to caress a tear, as to comfort a wound; but ever a dream, for light holds on, when storms shatter shelters; for this is love, to crawl through walls, where our reward is never. I perish your eyes, so deeply insightful, pushing us towards healing; I perish your frown, as one unworthy—to buff your satchel; where a bulb is beaming, filled with haunting, as we journey so quietly; this welt of wars, as found so distant, where it must be; for love ruins love, our mercy for souls, to disenchant every inclination; as to fathom life, this palm of a child, needy as needs for love; wherewith, is time, to muse such features, this visit from depression; as mania forms, embedded in souls, herewith, a legacy.  

Our Force of Flame

It flickers as flame, as abandoned to souls—this notorious feeling; to conjure, The Ghost—that far embedded, to bless a young swan; where pressure looms, as nerves shiver, at that point to vomit. It couldn’t be real, this something, impressing upon lips; this marvelous being, this angel of dungeons, as spoken in colloquialisms. I stray to fall, received with justice, as one that’s destined; wherewith, is pain, this fever of souls, befriended by joy; this marvelous love, at times for absence, as obedient as Christ. It was mere a spark, therewith, a volcano, this inner boomerang; to nurture wings, a fledgling in a nest, that closer to soaring. Oh for patience, an office of magic, as mystic as summer rain. We see it vaguely, this outward expression, a stranger to a mirror; to float to freedom, this inner web, as to realize God; this cryptic nature, to claim for freewill, burning as a fuse. It couldn’t be real, this flight of energy, to grow into a tsunami; as found in passion, this odd character, to hold it together; as never to speak freely, for such is death, to lead by expression. I heard your voice, hereto, stressed, while begging forgiveness. We must relent, as to turn from injustice, else repentance is a ruse; this frantic confession, shrouded in lies, as awaiting to do crime. It’s something to feel good, fully at fever, swarming through mothers worldwide. There came a soul, tatted with indifference, to thirst this flush of Spirit; wherewith, came a friend, to let loose in faith, as to capture darkness. We must confess, this inner mystic, as yogic as boomerangs; where spirits merge, to soar for freedoms, abandoned to this distance; but peace be ours, this inner stage, floating flame through forces.   

This Moment

There’s a gray-blue sky, where thoughts meander, as birds picture perfectly. It’s the patience of peace, therewith, a cigar, questioning this inner person. There’s a welkin smile, for plucking dreams, where a heart becomes a furnace. Our future becomes hopeful, as notwithstanding our pain—this moment in our cultured eyes. Nature is opera, this screaming aria, this faint quartet: as pleasure becomes mercy, while tortures subside, to awaken this inward vision; as watching pixels—form our rebirths, this picture painted perfectly. I return to sirens, this heady forest, carving our names; wherewith, is passion, a tree as symbol, this cave of rainbows; hereto, a thesis, that far away dream, to retrieve what he never treasured: this inward scar, these stippled wounds, to awaken like nothing’s wrong; but art be fair, this probing beauty—this vagueness of death; as permeated with pressures, this gorgeous tragedy, sketching a grackle; as to snatch a word, his inner forest, pictured for souls to see. There’s a gray-blue sky, where mother treks—a feature in his mirror; to know for rapture, this silent purgatory, praying for opened eyes; for we must to hear, as we must to see, our acrobatic spirits; for this is life, this thrumming flux, this Socratic inquiry; to live as children, as fully mature, praying for a touch of coddling; but there’s a gray sun, depicted in paradox, as so favored to feel anguish. It’s a probing secret, whittled in studies, as close to light’s darkness. This pigeon is watching, hereby, deciding, if humans are trustworthy:

            I captured a dream, to melt in rains, our season a mudslide; to morph with joy, this fleeting friend, as flirtatious as innocence. We scream for mercy, to achieve this boon, a room filled with ghosts. It mustn’t be, this power of song, this brain of playwrights—ever this stage, as pictured by Shakespeare, our dose of tragedies; where love is hard, our tales of variety, to spin through coffins; as finding a hand, to undig our graves, where love sings at sorrow. It’s ever this bliss, where a mood shifts—so our battle is multivalent; this peaceful dream, sheltered by champagne—in earnest this moment!        

How Many Times Have I met You!

I thought of mother—the multiple abuses, as stressed to hold things together; wherewith, was liquor, the same for drugs, asearch for our love; noted as the black-sheep, tortured for unrest, enlove with chaos. It couldn’t be real, this inner schematic, our outward gravitation; to court her death, from asylum to clinics, her mother’s affectation. This wounded soul, infused by love, as insecure as distrust. Such was flatness, the angst of pills, to approach animation. I cried her wounds, this infinite blackmail, which shattered limits; to laugh his pain, this tortured affair, fraught with broken bones; as troubled as breakdowns, this fatal attempt, to raise a young man; therewith, alone, a casualty of life, abandoned to the dregs; this infant affair, as thus ghetto magic, this Baptist nature; as born a Catholic, the grains of Passion, as morphed an apostolic; to rapture love, as fully infused, adrift the steepest cliffs; to gesture for gods, afield with black magic, to pass an onyx ring. I tried to laugh, to offset intensity, to see her through so many eyes—our deep connection; to love this woman, a bit distinct, to witness this nuance. It couldn’t be real, this never to escape, lurking near pearly minds; at random our scars, featured in features, a psych’s discernment: that inner turmoil, that inner chaos—that bent towards destruction. It mustn’t be real, a man his age, repeating this thing he disdains. Such is life, to cleave the familiar, despite the deaths; as born a human, to morph so gently, as to claim for manhood. We wonder for honors, of those quite qualified, to pass such judgment; to hold mother’s hand, as she asks our name—that far removed from reality. It aches the soul, to witness this foible, a woman our mother’s honor. It aches to perish, a childhood of Satan’s, wrestling with introjects. I met her thrice, to learn as we go—to never fall enlove. I saw her bruised, to hold composure, a woman of his heartbeat. We peddle forever, as looking back, hoping mother holds our seats; but fiction be life, this culture dread, as fevered as a mystic teacher. It couldn’t real, the child as mentor, this random turn of events; to have as magic, a yogic word, too young for adulthood; as there is was, this man of a child, sorting through mother’s trauma. I’ve met her grieving, this constant encounter, as to blend cultures. We’re not removed, as isolated souls, experiencing something unique. Oh this terrible truth, to hit us at unawares, to fail to see affectation. I fell enlove, as distinguishing faces, as to fail to see mother: this brilliant art, as painted perfection, this need to protect. It’s the pain of love, as grounded in absence, a brain distant from itself. I must retreat!                   

There Was a Time

Even to become you is easy—this detrimental love;—this fluorescent kiss; as given leeway, to pardon infractions, ever your temperaments. I caught a glance, enrapt’d in spells, this inner potion; as meaning diluted itself, for exchange this great affair. I saw beauty, this hypnotic gem, nibbling strawberries. We choked on love, as given up this ghost, clawing our way into a pit; for beauty is free, this morbid freedom—forever this poverty; for love is distant, as to welcome love, this fiend for love; to feel desired, as in our first weeks, this torrid sensation. It’s but a month—our words, as deep as poverty. We panic for words, where sex is law, this animal attraction; to seek our surface, where a moment flourishes, to rebirth love. It’s second to second, this game of Ping Pong, as to determine this future. We filter vineyards, enlove with grapes, to pause at a winepress; where love is florid, ever to become you: that manic smile, those sable eyes—that gesture your soul! We mustn’t perish, for something so vain, as for this want for electricity; this fervent need, for constant rapture, ever this far-reaching evil; as this grinning infusion—as ever paranoid—as frightened of intonations. There must be liberty, to suffer such poverty, as lakes coil through chambers. It’s easy to love you—this beautiful tragedy, as confused as adolescence—as wild as instincts; for I saw love, this hypnotic light, cursed with a halo; to dine for dancing, this dangerous world, as a wretched wound; to channel with grace, as finished with school, as prone to etiquette. It’s easy to hold you, when words are florid, when there’s a tear for comfort; when all is hell, this inner rebound, as to reach for guidance.              

Symbol

It became a dream—this marvelous dream, as deeply unseen; to fashion legacy, this linage of souls, graphed into God’s makeup. It must exist—this touching of a dream, to bid us wellness; where hearts are purple, as vivid as valor, this external voice; to harness pride, as merely a vessel, chiseled for other’s perfection. It must be real, this inner castle, as definition for faith; this firm experience, as to wrestle introjects, as to practice Gestalt tactics. We mustn’t perish, with so much to give, as radiant as four-hour-prayer; but there’s a death, leading to perfection, as to live invisibly; where there’s a death, leading to reprobates, in dire need of confession; but there’s a dream, as lived as forces, guiding us to eternity. This immortal dream, founded in concrete trials, lavished upon with abstracts. Our feud was destined, where anger trumps what’s righteous; wherewith, are gifts—the agonies of existence, probing a mind of liquor; as to mention sobriety, as barely a memory, to indulge her daily; this space of fullness, this marvelous soul, as vibrant as vajrayana. We took to madness, enchanted deeply, a secret for every truth; herewith, was partial, to living in silence, as giving but fifty percent—to live it blindly, but deeply angry, with our reckless selves; where self has done so much, as to ruin self, where blindness is priority; but there’s a dream, this inner paradise, trekking through turmoil; as there’s a dream, scribbled in symbols, as sacred as silence; to live it boldly, fevered by chills, the winds of darkened trials; as born a giant, unbeknownst to self, as humble as Marshal Arts; to pardon pain, this plural manifestation, to acknowledge a series of destinies.        

Passage to Pain

Was it joy—the remnants of pain, this mini-seaquake; to die so young, as gripping a swan, as beige as reality?—or was it love, this vague impression, as lethal as a first scar? We rolled upon skates, barely of age, to fall upon knees. We rolled a bike, as mother held us, to realize loneness. I couldn’t but perish, to feel your hands, gripping at our throats; to laugh as rain, as tender anguish, alert to a subtle death. I fail to waft, at times too angry, to address a fellow human; for there are rights, as the right to fail, as to be forgiven; but what was hell—a mother alone, fending for a future?—for what was heaven—to find a mate, to repeat an earnest cycle! I feel so warm, alluding to writing, to ponder a professor. We’ll never meet, for this is gray, the hells of gravity; but what was pain—this furious scar, this wound dripping confusion? I ask to cry, this internal rhythm, a stanza in our souls; for rhyme is life, this maze of patterns, this fission of wisdoms; to haunt our cores, this inner turn, nearly maladjusted. I passed a lung—a fountain of liquor, as mourning your ruby cheeks; but what was love, to die so quickly, to disappear with troubles? Its furious hate, this ballad of scars, to hurt as a thousand stitches. It can’t be real, to enter a womb, where fever condemns existence! We know for laughter, buried in pain—a table filled with drugs; but what for life, this agile force, pleading us to do rightly? I ask to fall, to appease such angst, to appraise a fellow soul; for earth has risen, as quick to battle, as filled with regrets. I knew your soul, a poet’s market, Our Father’s last plea; as born to trauma, as felt abandoned, searching for a parent. It can’t be real, this inner torment—a cause to sit in sackcloth. 

Our Swanic Soul

Hi Love. I ponder this mystic, as forgiving errors, adrift this psychic dimension. I see you growing, as to imagine waves, tiptoeing at a chamber. Our hearts vibrate, unto an earthquake, to wander through others. There’s acres of pride, sanded to perfection—this inner solar system. Its lunar tears, for midnight dreams, stenciled in wishes; wherewith, are passions, a collage of angst, chiseled at visions. I love us etching, lost in chants, to experience this nuance. I must explain, this mystic force, it rests as an inward touch; as ink-stained palms, or psychic designs, or this test exploding hearts. Let us envision, this abstract reality, as concrete as intuition; to love you more, as to wrestle ethics, our woes in a basin. We feel unknown, as hidden lanterns, gilded in treasures; but art be life, this verdant mind, gliding upon zephyrs; as fully charged, this vernal soul, adrift as mere vapor. It couldn’t be real, these droplets of life, as unsettled emotions; to cleave to dreams, as awaiting faiths, trekking through a gravid abyss; to outshine woes, this shapeless vacuum, at times to feel numb. This can’t be life—as reaching forever—this timeless womb; where kitsch is kisses, as fleeting as leaves, asearch for something permanent. I thought a teardrop, to usher a ritual, as filled with yogis; but this is life, a feather as a mind, where energy floats; but how for one, to generate such chi, to swarm as a locomotive? I can’t but test it, this endless necktie, this collar of a woman; for dolor lingers, as something dulce, where intention slumbers; wherewith, are jewels, an orchard of friends, watching closely—to love your soul.              

Meandering this Psychic Dimension

I love us sinning, this veil of pictures, as to decorate a psyche; to love perfection, as an imperfect soul, feigning perfection.     I found us laughing, as born contradiction, this petit joy.     We couldn’t be free, as such as freedom, to die so perfectly.     Our pious minds, found with friction, to sex so violently; wherewith, is pain, this treasured affliction, as to churn through feelings. Its miracle rain, therewith, are scars, the beauty of tragedy; this perfect love, whereat, are poisons, to subvert a soul.     I cried in lust, to wobble in agony, torn by a flickering flame.     We raved this dream, this pit of wails, as mystic as morphing traumas.     There’s sudden passion, this passion of tales, bonded through features-adrift; this friction of hearts, to travel so far, as close as two bones.     I hear measures, as buried in fire, the winds taking refuge; to feel us soar, this empty lot, confused as talking out loudly. Its 51/50, as blank our midnight, labeled at a help center; to freeze in motion, as to capture love, a moment of insecurity; as to feel hell, for mourning love, to feel unworthy; but so is life, its deepest reality, wherewith, is favor. We dream of passion, pulled by its calling, where hearts are wooed; as to speak of freedom, a slave of instincts, as to ruin a perfect love. It’s the purity of darkness, this framed dilemma, as impractical as fantasies; but more the practical, this pragmatic dimension, where love is mathematics; but how for this, our matters of heart, to awaken at a funeral; where all has perished, to become a ghost, a feature of a memory; where death forgets, the luxury of souls, while love struggles to remember. Its a thousand moments, wrapped in another’s arms, longing for clarity;—I’m such a stranger, even to self, as to wrestle our aura. It’s mustn’t be real, as for so many years, bottled in turmoil; but what for essence, this innocent dove, as confused as adulthood.              

Tsunami Hearts

It’s intricate—this inner needle, this chime of events; this lawyer’s instinct, this psych’s touch, this outward probing; but not all of me, as not all of you, but a fragment of us. I stood at essence, this investigation, this inner policeman; to see your eyes—so distant as aloof, this beige intimacy. We dance for sunrise, at inner conflicts, swirling in ecstasy. It’s pure resistance, as to channel divinity, this conflicting nature; where darkness is light, this light of darkness, this godly paradox. I ponder eyes, something unseen, this chilly actress; wherewith, are fevers, as sudden appearance, staring at yesterdays’ self. I thought us free, to see us chained, gazing at poetry: this savage life, this crystal flux, this feral explosion; but torn to fire, our inner passion, this dangling mistletoe; herewith, a subtlety, as something massive, to chain a future; but true to ask, Are you frantic, as for keeping aloneness? It mustn’t be real, this flaming kiln, as refined for purpose; where words are futile, as sighs relieve—one chanting with wolves. I see a psych, as charged as generators, spinning in loneness. We extend waters, as tortured these lakes, a series of volts; as large as planets, as thrust to hearts, therewith, are fireworks; to chance forever, this inner zeitgeist, this telepathic phantom; in which are dreams, even delusions, favored by madness; as close to breathe, these abdomen ghosts, pulling at an inner nature; as lived an earthquake, to cease our hearts, frowning as we laugh. It mustn’t be real, this outward spirit, to possess our souls; where life’s intense, this sudden hurricane, to uplift a secret nation.    

Teardrop Passion

There are opera eyes, gazing through fire, aloft a windstorm; wherewith, are rubies, a cherished soul, as is our agony; this roadmap astray, this grapevine love, as art through pavement. There’s concrete privacy, as to augment fires, that lonely a lounge chair. There’s an abstract fever, where sutures merit graves, gazing upon beauty. There’s Bugatti passion, founded in cherry glades, spawned through quartz of dreams. There’s majesty through lips, a clarinet heartbeat, a blue bird’s agony. It couldn’t be fate, this emerald wound, satiated through time; to touch at first glance, something so casual, racing as a roadrunner; whereby, is terror, this measure of dying love, as feigned by gemstones. It couldn’t be real, this trenchant intuition, poking at floating images; whereat, are dreams, those symbols of anguish, pacified by a trance.

How to measure grace, where beauty is treasure—our visions an outer garment! We tend towards death, this ballad of verses, a viola of mind-tones; as fretting in souls, this rhythm rising, enchanted by cryptic storms. There’s aria pain, this palm of petals, pushing passed pavement; as buried in time, as cloaked in madness, a tear founded in approval. There’s daybreak love, sprinkled with spurts of running, this seismic tragedy; wherewith, is laughter, this agile temper, this inner discovery; to have but lights, this fusion of passions, reaching at a violet sky.   

Before Birth, Unto Multiple Futures

we live it as tulips, this very short life, as sorting through issues; as soil to grain, or soul to brain, or drugs to attitudes. she was once cool, to rekindle addiction, a vulture to a child. I loved her so young, as filled with venom, angered through childhood trauma. it couldn’t be real, a repeated cycle, when it hurt so badly! we try for sights, the terror of mirrors, a mother as a problem. the gown is muddy—the scent is liquor, the odor’s cocaine: that instant tale, as remaining secret, to outrun an orphanage; where love’s chaotic, an early number, even an institution. I blink a tear, for it chased his life, for a number of decades; as to riddle words—that close to breakthroughs, but held back. it’s more the research, to feign for healing, to excavate every crevice; but whom this touch, the ink dripping pages, as to change his life. I deal with self, as honest as addiction, a fool to his trauma; where life is burgundy, as tales are purple, to suffer through inner therapy; for this is us, a world of characters, as tortured as old memories; to chant the fumes, for a vacant room, to run from scents. I loved her through youth, where she once stated: You’ll hate me one day! it’s called blackmail, to churn emotions, or even self-prophecy. I never knew to see it, as beige as tornados, mulling over a demon; to climb blankly, in need of models, as sober as, Theresa; but this is life, a demon at the gates, close to a thousand years ahead. it isn’t fair, this deep complex, to wrestle for wits; as torn asunder, a blanket as a friend, an angel in the distance. we’re living traumas, affected deeply, courting this Ghost; as father begs, a part of purgatory, to grace his mirror; where Mary deigns, to soothe a scar, that far the dreams.      

I Read Your Poem

it felt cool to feel it; to know not of that spoken; for it must be foreign. it felt good to hug; to awaken dreams; to fall into a vision. I return to roses, while winds mutter, of something foreign. there’s a spark, as for boundaries, to know for ruins: that inner junkyard, that difficult puzzle, those jigsaw lies; which kept us running, a clown as judge and jury, this feeling of roses. it was foreign, this manic storm, for a teenage fool. it was so early, a woman twice his age, to whisper something foreign. it took his mind, this melic art, this telic spark; to wander through poets, to hold hands with ghosts, this vision too far to reach. by means we see, something surreal, to touch that inner person; as tears become dragons; for it meant something—to the poet writing; as musing yonder, this teenage girl; a bit sad for mother, this broken dream, as disdain for faith. how to pull her—this frigid soul, a bit mean for pleasure? I took a picture, with invisible ink—as it stayed forever—as oh this dream, to utter profanity, screaming at alarm clocks; while lavender tears, tickled synaptic gaps, a group of untrained mystics; as similar to deadly, an infant serpent—as biting repeatedly. there’s tons of gravel, as aged old scars, to build a fortress: this kind sorrow, to compose a novel—as to lose self half way through. it felt good to hear it; to know not of that spoken; for it must be visions; where a coffin churns, through black berry diamonds, and beige swans; as hell pauses, to ache such beauty, this fate of crimes; where mother’s panic, for once so young, as now a scoundrel—to run amuck; but to love, this foreign power, filled with psychic friends.  

Songbird Wings

To throw a tantrum, as filled with rage, this senseless tantrum; as to die in fragments, lying to a psych, as to hold things together! We soon perish, as fraught with joys, to ponder grandma: those high tides, as ever a breakthrough, sipping punch. I failed her eyes, while nearly bankrupt, as she kissed a wound. We knew for trauma, as hidden in religion, as Purple Rain; but this was grandma, fevered by love, adept at worship. I mix venues, to see your tears, as reaching for something new; where mother cried, therewith a pearl, to lose a young daughter. This was sister, unborn to fret, surging through a sibling. I fly your earth, to want such glory, to remember a tragic moment; as born to death, this whispered sting, a crowd of mixed faces; wherewith, are scars, a thousand traumas, a million wounds. If to say it, the heart would churn—these words of love. I passed a test, as never to trespass, where sentiments grew; whereat is confusion, to love a feather, as floating to heaven; where mother warned, of golden thrills, of the lack of love. It’s moment to moment, grove to grove, a second in a pageant; to feel embrace, as face to storm, a twelve year secret. I cry to fathom, this green eyed woman, as hassled as disbelief. It couldn’t be real, this innocent love, this dangerous woman; as born gyrating, this natural infusion, an album born of love. I remember panic, as grieved to pursue, a woman twice my wisdom. Mother would cringe, to know for love, a woman of the mainline; to sit as soldiers, to converse as warriors, to find conclusions; as if to sing, this bluebird song, where mother forgave. I knew a friend that knew of love, to witness this outcome. We spoke of doors, as pulling back, to envision this legacy.        

We Rarely See Her Essence

how many hours of labor; this world of dreams; to watch her spinning? it couldn’t be real, after five stitches, this bundle of mischief. ever to give a lung, sipping in wee hours, concerned about preschool. oh we love our angels, this inner voice, as feeling guilty; for Ma’s angry, as to slam a door, as to scream at Papa. how to keep it together, this tide of miracles, a day to relax? our view is skewed, ever to complain, with palms held forward; where parents—to divvy a check, as barely enough. our homes are secrets, our dreams are public, whereto, are graphics. Don’t leave this house; as to leave that house—our first fist fight. Ma uttered wisdom, as felt for pain, to see that bruise. laughter was innocent, for bright brilliant smiles, stirring Papa’s coffee. it couldn’t be real, that utopic feeling, that inner euphoria; wherewith, this charm, this trust, this psychic magazine. We’re seeing portraits, this turn for chaos, this bundle of woes; but ever was good, this sad joy, to live it so skewed; whereby, are fevers, nestled in memories, a psych pulling at cords! She knew for lies, to grant us justice, to finally utter, You can’t always be right! it hurt a heart, to know for truths, to pour forth our facts. we laugh to think it; as so many turns, a portrait of deceits. our guardians—storming through hells, to ensure our comforts; as to forget self, this private agony, this public gristle; as gnawed through wires, from cage to coup, wherefore, were gripes—as kept to self. its often different, this torn addiction, growing in fractions—as three fourths her life; whereat, are scars, as seeping through veils, while Papa guzzles; or ever for Ma, this mistook woman, searching for love; where times are gray, as ever to hear it, I need a life too!