He’s
between pendulums, vying as to live, stationed in mirrors. Breath is sheer
motive, as motive is life, ergo life is breath. It’s the breath of this
woman—as sheer infusion, a queen of David’s. We never could laugh, as laugher
is sin, this intoxicating woman. We drift afar, as serious as Jews, the essence
of a kingdom. I found pardon her grace, as faced with grieving, for two were
never as perfection. We’ve appeared to a mirror, as if the second time, to
appear but a second. I saw a figure, as induced by lust, to overwhelm the
senses. I saw a curve—as to a mind, as an imprint to a soul. We’ve lost
innocence, to retain wisdom, as pure as unborn doves; to surface as sails,
fishing through darkness, surging through lightning. It’s every cliché, as
entailed trauma, to skate after sulfur. We’ve perished this urge, to claim it
as love, negotiating with serpents. I saw an image, this provocative woman, as
to send this mind; as soil to plants, as gravel to tires, or even souls to God.
I feel it this fever, this subtle vibration, as to remember this encounter; as
one inflated, or encrypted, as calm as Sensei; as there were eyes, as pulling
backwards, but moving forward. I walked windward, to speak as detached—from this
life of feelings. She inclined an ear, through a moment of senses, as crying in
reserve. Its fiery moons, as frostbitten suns—the wealth of a second silent.
Its heathen urges, in holy hearts, as heavy as hellbound hounds. The total
chaos, as pilgrimage—this mind, as a soul nearby; that channels life, indebted
to no man, as beautiful as pure lust. Our conference has come; the media is swarming;
our breath is motive, our motive is life. Should he succumb, to a purposed
ploy, as passionate as natural prowess? I beg of souls, this shifted plight, as
churning through a galaxy of tensions.
