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.
