His
eyeglasses are smudged. His style is too subtle. There’s something to him—this
man of visions, this aloof spirit. It couldn’t be real, a stranger in a temple,
wreaking mischief; to see for persons, this moody woman, affected by each
segment; this stately soul, adrift a subcontinent, needling at a subconscious.
Oh for such distance, whereby, impatience, wherewith, this expectation. Silence
becomes law—for he never knew—this magnitude of affairs; as sitting in crosses,
this gust of agony—this monthly outcome; as ever to tussle—with volts and
demons, this trope for traumas. He spoke in earnest, to notice a shift—they
pardon psychoses!—this psychotic air, as able to mimic, to go for deeper that
nature. Its picturesque passions—as driving his soul, as shattered for mercies.
The cries are loud—as ever to signify, this closeness to the finish line; as
born to cherish, this art of perishing, as monthly a new visitor. He wonders
the hell, they must incur, therewith, a sense of coldness; but oh this woman,
as nice as grandma, to induce a spell. It becomes deductive, peppered by
induction—this festoon agenda! We watch for justice, as words reveal, the
errors of temperaments; to chance, therein, the integrity of affairs, to tread
this land of trust! He couldn’t find it, as often it changes, a myriad in one
woman: the deepness of sighs; this internal whirl-fire; these eyes which hide
the trauma. It must be pain, as to fathom pain, this art of inner probes; if
must to die, to age with grace, to picklock a hurdle; for this is grace, to
carry a monster, while glowing in silence; where days are years, as months are
decades, to finally evolve; whereat, are tears, this embellished joy, as to
manipulate pains. It couldn’t be real, this inner rasp, this broken kernel, to
perform with such grit.
