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.
