We
study life, as to suffer ourselves, pointing at other’s mirrors. It couldn’t be
real: a family of addicts, a gene for illness—this destined tragedy. It’s grim
enough, to live in secrets—compelled to confess: the hidden madness, that edge
of travesty, those eyes that elicit rain. It couldn’t be real: this romantic
nature—suited for agonies, this theologian’s terror: to come to terms, as to
see self adrift, painted as pictured pangs. We dread introspection, this
hypersensitive mind, a pillowcase for guidance; to live a moment of joy, to
escape condition—but a time to wander!
We
study life, while scratching ceilings, as sudden for a breakthrough; herewith,
is courage, to exit Plato’s cave, to entertain shadows.
It
struck a nerve, those constant gestures, as to guard one’s subconscious; where
it couldn’t be real—this subtle vexation, these stars adrift, this skiing
turmoil, these pretentious dungeons; as to laugh in anguish, that silent mist,
permeating one’s retinas.
We
watch for wings, that inner glowing, as depicted in one’s aura—to have as
conscious, this centered dream, to efface our traumas; where joys surface, to
witness humanity, this spiritual effusion: to challenge chaos, with disorderly
order, this wave of paradoxes.
