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.
