So
provocative; so scarred! I’m clumsy with it, as to forget it, as wicked as
patience; to hear for runes, the prunes of justice, this taboo affair; whereby
the forbidden, beckons his charms, to throttle her majesty. I felt black art,
even henna, as spent as last days; whereat is fever, to enter by measure, to
utter for truths; this long excursion, trekking our back roads, as crossed
existence; as penchant this claim, this air of love, where she never owned it:
that fatal lance, our soaring chance, to see it skip a lake; but so
provocative, as so scarred, staring at russet dreams. I want a vision, to have
us not, to possess an inner vision; thus, he never saw her, to ask a foreign
question, to grog our souls. We groan in passion, as to laugh at folly, our presage
of love; one born defunct, as out of his times, loved as an alien; wherewith
are scars, to totter at bars, as to sudden her face. Our chase is madness, this
candid pain, to hone an ear bite; if only infusion, this sallow being, our tome
of adventure; as panic ruptures, for antisocial, speaking of a cauldron; but
not to please, this tease of life, at ease with devastation. Read our
soulprints. Unroll our carpet. Restrain from bilking self. Is it not us—a chest
of havens, ants, a long line of liqueur shots? I’m prompted sorely, this
outward soul, this zeal for lust; to chance her mind, this flux of affects,
this rhythm for rebirth; as so provocative, as so scarred, drilling our
existential. I haven’t said it, this non-existence, this thing called love; for
he never knew, our grayest lines, as to drift through sun-falls. I amble to
breathe, this pith of ways, as leaking from a gash; whereat is rapture, soaked
in bloody sheets, screaming her first scar. We die with justice, to seize but
life, as an unjust fever; but give us more, to waft this rift, to siphon her
wounds.
