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.
