To
choose this life, that inner feeling, to flee a cave; worked for pressure, as
born to death, to find exhilaration; where time is quakes, this inner treble,
as featured as mystics. We’ve given little, this fraction of nothing, filled
with expectations; indeed, I rant a fever, to lose sight, to soon return; but
something grows, this inner vibration, this treasured yoke. It mustn’t be, this
casual affair, stationed in humans; as radiant flame, or cultic works, to bathe
in glory; as ever this soul, as never by chance, pulled as fallin’ low; where
life ponders, therewith, this death, kneeling at an altar. I come to you
broken, to ask your powers, as much as obliged; but ever in secret, with such
agenda, to pardon this paradise;—its so mystique, this outward circuit—to
transform energy;—as living explosives, filled with soulprints, that morph into
memories. I’m warring frankly, this soft abuse, as one diseased; where all is
challenged, including feelings, as to interrogate thoughts. It’s our walk of
life, this inner sound, barking at eternity; to pull it forth, this inner
resonance, as painted through filters; where this is us, a crew of falcons,
altering railroad tracks; as filled with passion, to snatch at darkness, to
remove a certain power. It couldn’t be real—this transformation, this inner
boomerang; whereas, two are separate, to search a guardian, to know she
suffers; as with is life, this luminous enchant, a peasant as a sage. I love
you more, that our path is silent, witnessed by a treasured few; as inner our
mandolin, coupled with horns, to volt through heaven. It couldn’t be real, this
outward sensation, as particles trickle downward; to fall a soul, to strike
emotion, eye to eye with demons. It’s such for fever, this champagne tryst, at
once pictured as a lovelock; where this is false, to impassion fey, that closer
to faceless!
