Flaming In Water

As early as cradles, this burning fever, as filled with fire, as flaming in water; where hell set its course, to overthrow innocence, as something destined for triumph; to feel for ghosts, this power in humans, a feature of cadence.

I love us, ever born so dirty, related in blood, to meet as retreating, a gothic home, grieving the matrimony. I died to love us, knitted in features, our brains merging as one; to feel as earth, the beats of this heart, gliding through traffic. It’s ever this thought, abandoned to terror, to meet a fleet of memories; as to war this nature, in dire preparation, as born to fist fights; where a woman moans, as to groan in spirit, riding the great dragon. It came as chi, to morph into spirit, where resonance alarmed a nation. I cried his death, mourning as to die, this infraction of souls; whereat, a nightstand, bleeding his essence, filled with demons; to gesture a psych, as pleading forgiveness, for a time uncommitted. I uttered a name, as to measure a cross, to walk through and shiver. It’s mere practice, to feature death, as a form of strength; to feel for tension, this grave intuition, reading through, Douglass. I loved her pain, shivering in silver—the moon as witness; to crave neuroses, as a form of growth, to panic nearly psychotic; as roaming through streets, paranoid and charged, to arrive at a tavern; where liquor was libation, and tears were affection, streaming through transmigration. It couldn’t be us, this freshet of woes, captured in tender graves; therewith, a jar, filled with light-flies, as to guide the way. It was mere a voice, to electrocute a nation, as to lead into a terror-dome; where mothers grew weary, as fathers grew teary, to see us dying for tablets; as crying night-traumas, filled with somber hopes, to see things morph into change. I need to speak, but years mold distance, where we become complaisant; as cringing alone, filled with prayer, to feel this thunderstorm; where daughters sort through thoughts, influenced by positions, where one is afraid to lose. I couldn’t but see—the hells of souls, striking through purgatory; to think as he writes, this meter graphed within, to usher forth a night-wave.

I love us more, as time dispels hope, and reality utters the word, Never; to see it as children, longing for impossible flowers, craving a calm goodbye; but this is nature, to refuse to perish, as one cherished within; despite the traumas, and ever the addictions, and mother loving the fourth of July; for this was us, afraid of fireworks, with a fresh box of memories. I love us more, speeding through turmoil, destined for that fatal star; as born too late, as living too soon, alert to a myriad of passions. I beg it to fall, the walls of agonies, where Berlin is but a fraction; to have this moment, pouring forth in torrents, a mission too cold to pursue. I die in sorrow, to love this scar, too close to retreat, where mercy is treason, and treason is caution, as to love us dying.      

Perception As Love

This isn’t for that, as this is for that, to unravel chemistry; as born your life, to panic as trauma, this coasting event; so much as passion, crossing stagnant lines, in that place of holiness. I felt you in laughter, this present vibration, as such were tears; to surf Atlantis, as reading Augustine, to imagine such confessions; where love is a feeling, as seeping into actions, a woman chiseling an ark; to have for daybreaks, this subtle annoyance, as to fathom this sensation. I died to love you, as acquainted barely, as some type of sickness; where love was forbidden, and love was screaming, and pain mounted infusions.

I tried to leave us, this vicious motif, founded in ovaries; to climb this womb, and panic this stroke, as hips fall apart; to pause and die, as one afraid, of this glorious woman. The years are attics, where mice roam, nibbling upon thoughts; thinking of brawn, enflamed by substance, as wanting grave intelligence; this gothic thrill, this internal freezer, sweating in a summer rain. We’ve broken cameras, this false image, as captured by eye-prints; so pray this soul-vein, streaming this mindcave, as bleeding to hold one moment; or cherish this fancy, where such was monumental, to affect three fourths of my life.

We find for reasons, where facts were laden, to love our-enchants; as crooked this thought, to walk in fiction, and love you with paranoia; where gods war, and disciples mourn, and children plead for sobriety. I long your nights, and crave your days, as one sick with this invention; where serpents peek, through sable eyes, as to enliven life; as petals trickle, through fevered souls, to form an image; where I sigh your name, as something so far, as wishing it was easy; as to jettison such warmth, for drilled in lust, where the magnets lack resistance. I couldn’t but hope—of velvet sheets, encrypted in nightmares; to love an image, this vision of tears, for hell has embedded its jewels.    

Mystic Feel

I saw you at a soul, this dragon of dreams, to awaken in cold sweat. I loved you in a maze, as one so broken, a fledgling of life. We parted bread, and sipped the blood, even us as angels; to feel surreal, this cabinet of charms, as gifted as a destined death. I watched you die, this fury of ashes, where you morphed into radiance—and oh torn so seriously, a series of Greek myths, a body of christic idols. Oh the frowardness, as akin to mischief, this terror of resilience; to have but one soul, so gauged as a monster, so loved as a teddy. I love us more, this distant feud, conversing and tiptoeing china. It must be life, to love as fevers, emboldened by winking lights; and it must be life, to hold a scar, as frantic and alive—for oh this deep riddle, where friction is magnitude, and love if friction; to feel for mystics, this ravished lot—a pile of salt; as born to chaos, a mother as a sword, a father as a runner; but I love us more, cemented in wisdom, and swimming through tragedy; to have this dream, scarred, battered and bleeding, to leave self and return your soul; to have but one, this ethic design, to wonder where we disconnect; as the two being one, where the one is solo, and the two are merging. It’s deep a conflict, this music as internal, the channel as mystic; to know for psychs, the days of old, a prophecy as a boulder. It couldn’t be us, as musing a passion—so gifted the promise of death; to ask one question, of this immortal love, to ponder this thing of immortality. I threshed a thought, where you were queen, enlove with plucking plums. It’s a simple passage, as filled with meditation, as easy to comprehend; where the simple is Zen, as grand as midnight, this leverage of souls. I love us more, as enchanted deeply, as torn by the threads of lights; and I love us more, as infused dearly, striking through caves; but it shouldn’t be love, for so convoluted—this inner ablation.     

The Diamond Is Split In Parts

Oh for this condition; this serpent of tales; this world as mid-winds; as love born to burn, as burnished iron, as built bare and blank.     I must say more.     There’s a skyward thorn, pushing into his pelvis, as one peevish, paranoid and painted into panic; to feel a void, where her answers are raw, that kind of shell that lives saltless; where the seas are ghosts, and the lands are phantoms, a field of feral fires.     I know more the currents, a vest of identifiers, surfing somewhere the southern border; whereat, are dyes and rubies, and Russian rules—to have this dream, where perfect is perfected, and patience is plural; for I love her more, as mere psychology, as opposed to misty experiences; to now know disdain, the pain of his mother—molded into a maniac; where pain was love, and angst was normal, while forbidden was trespass.

     I hear us crying, as caved in a cactus, controlled by city chaos; as loving this life, this serpent’s condition, surly and faintly satanic.     I must explain: to that that we practice, we become a slave! [but] what of anguish, lost in this body, accumulating joys; for the want of normal, this vale in quotations, to witness a fist full of fears; this enchanting grave, this tombstone legend, affected with tender terrors; whereat, is life, even a set of parts, where contrast becomes a paradox.     I must say more.     There’s this middle, as permeated with confliction, where the highs induce the lows, and the lows deduce the highs, and the cycle is endless; but thus lives this section, as fully diluted, bleeding the dearth of dungeons; to have this charm, as a mystic manic—this majestic faith; whereto, is blood, and hereby is life, and therefore, is love; for such is richness, the rails of radiant madness—ever confused, at war with self, and frantic this fever of fires.                   

Convergence

I thought of Hindus and Sufis and Mystics and Love and this Center perforated by emotions; to have this feeling, this castle of legions, sorting through spiritual texts.

I died that night, abandoned to dragons, seeking where humans were wanting. I fell abysmal, this inner challenge, as languished as souls; to have this second, where voices plummet, to arouse the inner mystic. Oils permeated the winds, as I chanted for days, deprived of rest; the city was a desert, a cactus was a rose, and swans surrounded my distance. I had to see it, that altered by life, as filled with hypomania. It churned in styles, as one drugged by love, as one infused by vogue; to have this Heart, as chakra and force, where spirits roam the terrains. Such was reverie—a promenade of souls, a beach of rituals; we felt for death, this solo experience, as flying through spheres. I loved us more, this deep dementia, that closer to Chambers: the darkness of days, the candles of nights, as one enchanted by this other world.

I lived that night, through a myriad of souls, to have that encounter—as such convergence, a chant streaming within, a fist full of energies; as crying to live, as one losing it all, as one barefaced intoxicated…but how to escape, this fated hand, lunging towards a brick statue. It’s more the highways, the coast of islands, a journey searching for symmetry; where some would dance, as reaching forward, but only for selfish gain; and some would laugh, to smell such fumes, emanating from one soul. I cried an exit, this bliss of minds, this euphoric stature; to love as loveless, the noon of days, sipping on chi: it altered dimensions; I would never return; as one split and opened towards divinity.     

Heartsore/Heartwings

You colored me—in spite of tragedy.     

We abandoned art, abed an abysmal fire, this chant as beautiful as ballet; to know such majesty, and angered by its depth, for ours were the flames of dalliance.

I digress.

I remember such agony. It was so hard to breathe; and our ballet, was suffering from blisters. It shouldn’t be real: a comely star; a velvet fork; two persons split in halves; this division of fours, as an attempt to mend all parts, staring at the calligraphy of gestures.

I return.

We abandoned art, with much regard, enflamed by the specters of lust; to have for such failure, and still persevere, but stress deep in our shoulders; as to fall to grace, laden in steepness, afore a monster’s passion. I can’t speak of love, even to ask of love, but I demand of love: this feeling of undersiegement; this sublime frustration; this need for seamanship; else a thousand woes, for a million waves, for one clad in mercies. It’s ever this turn, spinning through raceways,

as to realize something caged: the souls of nun; our wistful brains; to see the left has mingled with the right—as to infuse a passion.

I digress.

Could you see us this way; as filled with such abuse, as believing we have achieved our goal; for this endless war, and such rippling vibrations, in tuned with this metaphysical cavity? I used to die at seconds; it has become minutes; this volume stirring through loins; to know of hate, to jettison her soul, to turn us over to demons; to walk with you, through veiled nightmares, even a television chanting its dream.

I return.

We abandoned art, this thing of persons, even our personalities; to perish with pains, a finger to the sun, to indicate responsibility; where love was patient, albeit, rootless, for our mirror’s scream of discontentment:

to have for this moment, a second to muse, as to ponder the caprice of love; whereat, are consequences, imparted to self, this luxurious luggage; for children are watching, at such a young age and they too will run from discomfort; as to lose a marriage, or blame the sky, or call for bankrupt at the slightest intonation. It could exist as pain, where such is unaddressed, to see it destroying futures; or it could persist as meaning, a mind for closure, where mother found rest.   

I Love Us

I love us; this mythic terror; to know through death this love bolted to chaos; this glorious love, as a terrifying volt, as to rupture in night-screams.

I spin forever these lines, to outrun mirrors, to outwit catastrophe; for love is luggage, that before and after, to carry it with loving pride; to know her as angels, filled with integrity, to see her faint with destruction; to hold this voice, our palms thrust with nails, to reach forth and soothe a wound. It mustn’t be real—this faith as love, for two—a generation of passed emotions; whereat, were petals, and wines in crystals, and grapes as aphrodisiacs. It had to live us, this life of adult scars, to relearn this thing bleeding trust. I swirl mane, and trim eyebrows, and purchase tampons—to witness wheels, spinning midair, while broiling sirloin steaks. We love for onions, stirred in rice, as not to forget the bell-peppers; so I love us; this mythic terror; to know through death this love bolted to chaos; this glorious love, as a terrifying volt, as to rupture in night-screams; as having this vulnerable moment, where she sees us as frightened, to hold us that second her bosom. I speak of men, as living façades, captured in the pleats of ideals. I speak of women, afraid to live torn, battling for one love. Oh to feel it, this sea of seismic stars, rumbling through metaphysics; as something esoteric, to touch us as vibrations, to live with deep-seated insecurities; while she applies L’Oreal, this moment in time, to watch in silent reverence; for I love us; this mythic terror; to know through death this love bolted to chaos; this glorious love, as a terrifying volt, as to rupture in night-screams; where pressure is love, to subjugate a scar, one skating the barriers of decades; to die as living, or to live as dying—her face a treasured incantation. I spin forever such tears, to outrun mirrors, to outflank catastrophe; because truth churns, through webs of silence, where a gesture wrote a novel, and a woman sprung joy.     

Sky Fire

It’s grounded in features, this magnificent death—the jewels of a living ace; to master as kings, these queens of life—a jack as jester. I’m ten miles in, and nine miles afar, staring at a crazy eight;   

to perish at seven, as a six of clubs, enthralled by five senses. I’ve cried this life, skipping through traumas, as clearly of much help; and filled with diamonds, a countenance that wails, these days of mischief! I’ve loved as degrees,

filtered through vines, a treasure to a system; this elaborate daymare, soothing the cares of ignorance, challenged to hold this breath. Oh for irritations, and hectic vibrations, a soul rummaging Tai Chi;

to have this vision, a tear for feng shui, for love has melded terrors; the lights of such damage, as a frigid soul, yearning for the warmth of palms; to have as defeat, this fleet of woes, when she uttered, I love us. It mustn’t just die,

this age of kismet, a flower upon a butterfly; where love was hell, as the only form given, whereat, are arms bleeding grief; for something so simple—as a kind reply, we perish a lifetime of envy. It mustn’t just live,

this febrile hatred, for one that uttered the truth; for if it hurts so deeply, than why repeat death, as if one is demented dearly,

soaring through vexation, dying to kill life,

where disease has ruined souls.

I ask alone, tired of the nights, whereto, the days are tiresome; but truth be life, the volts and jolts—the Ghost as rising; to feel adventure, this nameless lot, to merely dwell in presence; to love for spirits, roaming the chattered earth,

forbidden from touching her face.    

Good Morning

Good morning, Love. We address passion, this park of souls, chasing the abandons of freedom; with such enthusiasm, the dregs of empiricism, for such freedoms are torturous. We give for life, and frantic to guide, where a swan reasons for herself; to proffer a challenge, for this beige world, and disenchanted by paradox; so the place we dwell, becomes confusion, as to infuriate the swan; where this is life, and somewhat oxymoronic, whereat, are frustrations; but what of passion, this zeal for college, this want to succeed—to have for treasures, the power to brood—in order to fish out a solution? We need exposure, this net of experience, to dance as pragmatic minds; indeed, flooded with metaphysics, to picture so grayly, where souls compartmentalize; as to value truths, painted in passions, to settle when the mountain has been conquered; to journey forward, into a forest of webs, as to pick the paths of freedom; but this is life—a tinge of frustration, a vest of arts, and this zeal for musical passions; to dance in an armchair, to live out an armoire, to write a novel; where pieces form a puzzle, to notice a pattern, where like-minds have paved the course. We reach the skies, saturated in meditation, to sit alone vibrating; and what is this venture, but the call to Light, soaring and scaling caves; to have a soul, permeated with life, this feeling that drives our hearts; whereat, are dangers, to watch for maya, for deception is the maze of knowledge; so gather wings, as filled with feathers, to realize a crooked line—as to fly freely, a born skyscraper, tugging at hidden stars; for this is living, to do it with intention, as opposed to gripping life passively. It mustn’t be pain, to offset destiny, as one waning in resilience; for it must be pain, to set in motion—a volume of prose; and it must be pain, to open an old soul, to the realization of an inner voice; to mold as overseer, and climb as the heartbeat, that rages against the tides of tragedy.           

Volts Spark Enchant

It’s a different volt—something akin to panic, where the heart is fire; if but a moment, unlike the Ghost, this terror to feel. I love this drilling. I knew to intrude. I knew to beckon India. It’s more an arrow—this spark in June—the waves of one volt; for there’s a woman, this different feeling, alike to your soul. The earth is shallow. The vine is marrow. The bone is threading. It mustn’t be real—the realness of a swan, so young—as embedded in serum. I love for unseen, as one sipping grapes—that closer to sober. It’s the gravest tolerance, the lying to a psych, as rich as its toxicity; to have this feeling, as dead to inhibitions, where such is guided by class; and nevertheless, I yearn for entrance, as slow as a snail, to enter into this monument. Our ether is love, the death of failing stars, as stationed in Orion; to know for Neptune—this looney estate, ruptured by a fading splinter; this volt of seconds, devoid of romance, except for this vague resonance. I’m indebted dearly, to hear your answer, to know for faith; where yours is plural, and mine’s the image, as if not for plural. I hear you more, this beige of a woman, as if the tides are not devastating. We know for proves, that deep the caves, staring at hieroglyphs; to die this moment, to see it so clearly, to receive the confirmation; but I know a woman, that needs this gesture, to see it aside from science; to hear that voice, that midnight sermon, echoing deep the cerebrum. It mustn’t be true, to meet your acquaintance, sitting while puffing cigars; but I know a woman, this vague alarm, as enchanting as a Hindu poet: so must to beckon, this solemn drill, for one akin to a swan. It couldn’t be real, this inner chamber to bless a series of doves; as born to loins, and stranded in a desert, as filled with holy straw; to know for Krishna, as embedded in flesh—the girth of a thousand ships; to ask of Helen, this vibrant star, to infuse Poseidon.

I love us dying, this sick affliction, as God heard Elijah; to soon see us die, this palm of Psalms, as one bent towards destruction; to live a voice, as something unheard, this woman as a witness. I die us more, to live us more, this volt tenfold indifferent; and this riddle, to know for a charm, the breath of a moment in time.       

Grapes & Hindsight

Measure our souls—oh mighty Ghost, our flaming frontiers; as to pain and gravel—this infinite doubt—as subjugated in faith;—so why so grim, and so lost in grapes, as one fermenting in terrors. I fathom this breath, as left and smileless, bricked into a nightmare; and God be good, the fever of this faculty, spinning and grinning at diamonds; to dig for deep devils, this internal plague, as rich as a sudden breakthrough. I loved her like gods—so short of articulation, a woman bred on literature. I fawned and waned—so disoriented—the product of love; and seasons died, a sigh from the gutters, as buttered in traumas—sitting and baking, an oven passed its girth—this woman as a grounded memory; to see for silence, the richness of screams, as one to scold the volume; but I love—some part of death, attached to some part of life; to have us as illusion, this faint part of reality, as to skip and mourn the fruits; where earth is patient, for want of a miracle, addicted to the esoteric; whereto, the fatal—this bleeding Cross, inebriated off of Zen; to seek at soot, the scope as sullen, a sudden air salivating. We cried this night, to know for nothing, this silence pushing at me to speak; as stars and swans, as smiles and stress, as something afar suffering. It couldn’t be life, as to lose so much, where the adversary increases; and she loved this grief, sitting as an island—so alone the public seas; to see for purpose, our precious hearts, as one captivated by silence. I loved her less, as to accept her station, as to love her more. It’s the darkest days, as the days of darkness, shimmering in silence; but know of love, this want to give, even this gift of love; where vultures soar, and villains sprint, as if the hours were young; to have for death, this tear of redemption—our Father as one with humankind. It mustn’t be real, as wax melts into a furnace, as an opiate trickles from heaven!

Eczema As Love

I’m afire your thoughts, as craving this ghost, forever lost this cycle; to puncture a bean bag, while yanking at curtains, if only for oaken eyes; and tender the grave, an armoire of personalities, and knee-rug bleedings; to furnish a sentence, the mind of a bookcase, too far close to perish. I couched a heartbeat, as ten tiers high, gripping upon romance; to love a queen, filled with ventures, to cater Venus; this brilliant charm, as falling in Rome, as yearning for Africa; to have at midnight, the volts of Buddhists, kneeling at a credenza; while hearts to flutter, and cribs to rattle, and wailing at a game-table. The dice are shaved, sanded through deceit, pictured as a centerpiece; to

fall your lap, as crying for death, as clenching a crying torch; for love is mercy, this loveseat of enchantment, as to tolerate an heartsore. Its mental this grave, cleaving to insanity, this nightstand of a woman; to squat upon an ottoman, as this sort of pledge, to vow to this faithful tear; this settee of diamonds, this basin of joys, this act of validation; as God be heard, trekking through a vineyard, as merely the sight of footprints; where air is battle, and fangs are value—the more the measure—of this thing called love, as to forfeit grace—a soul of tinkling cymbals;

as born to channel,

through hells the graves,

as one shadowed in climaxes; but this is love, this event of charity, where vowels become a moment of torment; to adore the pressure, this account of heartbeats, this action found monumental; where demons cry, and omens give gifts, as to congratulate the risen. We’ve died this night, as an ant upon a cloud, to have this second of feeling God. It mustn’t be real—as to love this mirage—the perceptions of a camera; but death be good, to infuse a gem, this woman of a thousand smiles; and albeit broken, it’s our badge of love—the bait of a million joys.       

Nowhere As Invisible

Catch us thus a dream, as fully psychotic, as to manage such features; but it’s more a dream, as filtered through woes—the masquerades of mirrors; as to crack a kernel, as twelve months an asylum, as to return like a falcon. I met a Zenist, a soothing songbird, as devious as Al Capone; where stars grew weary, as tides grew faint—of painting that false utopia. Our armchair is shredded, filled with the claws of cats, while we swim through velvet scars; to have this moment, an arrow as an impala, a Chevy as a peace-keeper. Our souls are knotted, a cactus as a friend, falling as a fiend for the desert; as filled with debt, this credit card plague—our bones the measures of a collar; and born to love, this kettle affair, fumigated with high hopes; our streams of   

pressure, and this fatal dialogue, where Job acquiesces; and children are dead, this slighted fact, for children were born; but damned be good, this temblor of cries, the imprints of a quilted skull; to arise a beast, knitted as a soulprint, as longing for a sculptress;

the nights of pagans,

as envisioned unclean, the opus and splendor of fire.

We’re dying a field of gold, searching for finding, unaware of the measurements. We’re to and fro, a fleet of firebirds, a palm of firebrand; to have this death, cuddled in your arms, flaming through the methods of logos; to have this dream, as visible as elves, as impassioned as leprechauns; where fire’s a ball of voices, as furious as Yahweh—a vest of political nightmares; to see this vision, as depicted upon graphs, to stray for this want of elusive; to grab us not, this action of fiction, as real as tavern illusions.    

Thesis

It’s merely a thesis, by which to perish, a bit embarrassed by life; for love was never, but sheer the gesture, to await a reply. I soon forgot, the wiles and ways—of one so eager for anger; but more it came, to plant a jester, as branches melted into pavements; but what of love, this measure of a person, even that found platonic; to have for grayness, the scents of blackness—as one aiming for whiteness; this centric divide, as channeled in a comma, to feel for family; that grand event, to lose such filth, as to gain such chaos; but I meant to ask—of something so cold, a game of few souls, grounded in perspiration. Our table is slanted—a semi credenza, where the drawers are filled with confetti; to have this whiff, of something so mean, as to ignore a man’s thesis; so worry the sun, but laugh in joys, for the measure is love; as to scold a swan, and hold a dove—the two as one; as born to color, this sycamore tear—a set of oaken eyes; to cringe this life, as auburn knowledge, to find for treasure such footprints; as yearning for Kenya, the trumpet of a soldier, falling into a symphony. I died to meet us, as furious souls, fallin’ where we arose in panic; to catch a season, the garlic of soup, as one reading through Purgatory; but more to topic, this disenchant, where neither gives a rat’s ass; as feeling for fever, to unmask Satan, flipping and hiking through a blackdamp; to nurture soot, to strike for gold, the diamonds of a personality; to see so much, as in touch with death, to transform its very essence; to feel undone, adrift the arête, stressing the footprints of Aristotle; as born to Plato, this christic event—a songbird of a swan. We strive as gladiators, the surface of souls, as sick and psychotic; to space a triumph, to pause for culture, our strings afloat a star; as woven in chaos, the girth of a psych, if only to reach this bleating sun. I can’t but life, in a world so bold—a cathedral as a heartbeat.  

Rise!

What is he—this hallowed man, spinning to fall—to rise; as risen so far—the bars of Wisdom, this liberating force? The more for one, the more for contrast—a comet in a psyche; to raise a glass, as given a speech, as to fall and teach and rise. I met us in prose, the churning of Words, to find us grieving pavement: as nurtured through spines, the eyes of torture, founded in hays of happiness; this grand applause, for one broken partly—the splitting of a plum; for more the core, this war of selves—a mirror as plurals; and exponentials, the terror of souls, to forfeit numbing words; to have for craft, this technique of substance, as founded a bit naïve; but this was us, the chasing of stars, as wounded in the fields. We nurtured a dream, as reeled in pigmentation, to realize similar traumas; these familiar spirits, haunted for such essence, to read a clock through forward thinking; and I know for eyes, this aura of a child, a bit too far to reach; and reach we have, through kinetic gloss, to swarm at unawares; to have this moment, as to fall and rise and dance and claw, that closer to pits and dungeons. We bring for words, as cradles and draperies—an album on repeat—to tether a dream, the face of ambition—the silence and science of a human being; for it comes with ease, to love this swan, as to forfeit the insidious; but life is riddles, that faraway field, trekking through mountainous terrain; as sitting in stillness, the art of Zen, as buried in intuition; to rise into a chant, to fall into an abyss, as one risen above the pain; as to harness grayness, at the loss of blackness, as one accused for whiteness. I met us in poems, as carved from God, as two pushing towards freedom; where art was goodness, to excavate deepness, as one forfeiting the petty errors. Oh for silent tears, and petit scars, where perception betrays the onlooker; to scavenge a sewer, as enthralled by gold—the antre of a furnace; whereat, are illusions, these smelted realities, as to position a rising mirror; to churn in circles, the ways of chaos—the product of one’s genetics.   

Reach Beyond Trespass

To imagine your face, pushing towards triumphs, a tongue as glib as moonshine; as to die in presence, the voice of falcons, as eager with a lion’s head; to want for coitus, this land of make-believe, this internal reality; where positions clash, for two as animals, that further from legitimacy.

We broke for laws, to feel this something, this invisible something; to carry such lies, where cuffs are immortal, a harp as a heartbeat; to flex something foreign, this woman as a jewel, this four-part attraction; as such deception, embodied in truths, as fatal as point-blank-range.

It’s a night of limos,

the richest champagne, infused by articulated words; this fall of moments, as grieved to perish,

to love in spite of losing; for oh this lose, as feral as orgasms, as heightened as a climate,

as fevered as sin; to know for flux, this lux of energy, to scream as to offend an office;

where words screech, while senses murmur—a body filled with vibrations.

It becomes a high, with palms drenched in myrrh—our colored matrimony; as to avoid values, as charmed by sycamore, as peering into flushing flesh.

It’s our bowels of love, as our nethermost regions—a silhouette of castles; to muscle attraction, our footprints upon clouds, our torrent devastating lives.

It became a song, dripping in hormones—the estrogen of emotions; as found in both, sorting through symbols, to live this magnificent lie:

our inners as vocals; our loins as children; our knots as geishas.

It’s oh so fulgent, this radiant chaos, where secrets have become myth; to smell for flavor, a household of gumbo, to fall and swivet into a climax.

We love it more, this nostalgic angst,

pretending our end has come; to suit for others, but a moment in passing, to reunite filled with heartache;

but we mustn’t perish, this bed of strangers—this Incredible Hulk;

if merely a thought, this garlic for vampires—our inner masquerades;

as deep an antenna, this voiceprint of senators, this thrust towards presidency; as living for turmoil, a fireside of passions, a trumpet as a last goodbye;

to know for guile, this trial of souls, as creating such folklore.     

Whispers of A Cave, Breaking Perceptions

I wouldn’t but love you; this magnet of dreams, as cast to a forest, where rain is heavy, and serpents are teeming, and souls are screaming; where notions become real, as deprived of humanity, as probing images of a mind. We needed closure, in this world of nomads, seething and struggling for land. It’s for bigger mistakes, that life is crises, as one born to an addict—and more so a queen, vicious as for unseen;—and cruel as a form of receiving notice. [But] more your wisdom, to give us such distance, living as to die a warrior; this fatal appeal, as one a House of Representatives, a chair two paces from trauma. If a would could live, a should would prosper, but life is a House of Cards—or more a Scandal, as a sign of heritage—our cultures enthralled by drama: the reckless lover; the angel of a wife (a bit for impromptu); and the realization that power inebriates. We meet in minds, and dine in markets, and even that unconcerned; as lurking in shadows, reaching for this unforeseen, enchanted by what’s forbidden. I knew us at unawares, as terror unraveled, and we gazed upon energies; where thoughts were treasures, but not for trespass, for life is paved in certainties; where a routine is cherished, to know a pattern, to then abuse such patterns; but pain is good, if modified in measures, as one waxing on and waxing off. I’ve said so little, as one running from feelings, as one unaware of feelings. I need for inventory, this something of a dream, to arrive at this furnace; where could is but a mirage, under-girt in fear, as one seized by a fantasy. [But] this is love, a sense of exploitation, to enliven a current affair; where is is a noun, as opposed to a verb, built seemingly for a surface of musing; whereat, are virtues, a mother with child, a father with pressures; to want what came with stealth, as something too early, for two were growing through a phase. [Yet] more your heart, this non-classification, an ink-pen as a friend, an admirer as an inner dream; to know a would could never be; to know for hybrid passions; to lack and serve this chase of justice, as one deprived of pledging allegiance. It’s more a feel for goods, a closet of black magic, a storehouse of tensions; to strive for better, and chased by demons, as years chisel a subtle sadness.

I’ve said so little, as wanting to utter love, where this is fabrication; for I know us not, aside for images, and images dwell in perceptions; where such are skewed, as slanted by positions, as steered towards protecting egos; to have but a scene, where hell became your eyes, as founded in poetry. [But] still a vision, lingering in a dark place, screaming as losing insanity; to hold a notebook, or better a novel, to see you in every page; this mustn’t be real—this tear of terror, as to realize that nothing cleaves to fancy; whereby, I love for ventures, a raft upon a cloud, easing toward a deep incline; as all the way to earth, this unearthly feeling—the gin of a long goodbye; to drill at panic, as fear explodes, for two shall never explore this justice of a fancy; where days are jasmine, and nights are jasper, and life is a series of it couldn’t happen; to feel such currents, this inner arc, as refined as a pregnant glance. [But] I would to love you, even in fey, this recognition of spirits; for something lives, a modicum of treasures, as believed for purpose; to die one’s heart, as to soar this heart, where majesty becomes an a.m. drumbeat; so more to seeing you, if merely in images, as to let go destroys a hidden art.      

Evermore A Soul

I’m at a portico, as eyes ablaze with fire—the prow of souls; to live it as a fantast, some-type of soulquake, gnawing an interior yoke; as meant to live it, where soldiers perish, in chase of becoming warriors; as engaged in battle, this rarity of events, as two taken towards destruction.

It’s a mystique wraith, a comet as a soul—a ladder as a symbol; to cry your life, as one to foresee—this inner gurney—this mental harp; as to sing the blues, for one addled and terrified—the tempo of a saxophone; as featured in hearts, this infinite brochure, where death is riddled with affairs. It mustn’t be love, as fabricated through sex, ever to hear, It was merely for moments; to become that person, as repeating that line, to see a mirror and vomit. I know for passion, that desired feeling, to want it as an object of lust; where object is troublesome, this deep conflict, as to live this very paradox; where a dreamcatcher twiddles, as alive in midair, as harnessed by a vision; to have and protect, this reckless life—our poison as ever our nectar. It mustn’t be life—this dynasty of woes, to feel joy as something foreign; for one is bias—towards that of experience, to live each day as a triumph; where war is normal, one girded in flux, a day’s journey towards bliss; to feel the cinema, a movie playing its song, where a chessboard twiddles in midair. The carpet was laid; the opera was sung; and life became a series of stitches; where choice was void, this thing of struggle, even in the Senate. Oh through tendons—every volt—surging through sensations; to stand so close, close to ten miles apart—and parting ash. The miracle is love, an immortal action, a product of metaphysical residue; to wobble through life, as missing the mark, for an arrow is slanted by corners; to churn in reverse, a series of a city, to thrust a beating cave. I use us more, as a cat ruins upholstery, as one murmurs of humiliation; to have but dreams—our palms colored in pains—staring at sycamore eyes. It couldn’t be real—the footprints of autumn—this torrent of sensations; as scribbled in psyches—our signs and measures—our symbols of evermore.   

Ink Oozes into Souls

I couldn’t imagine such adversity; being so young and faced with such trauma. I speak rarely of dualities; but there must exist a force—this deep affliction, where hell is a reason to persevere. We utter the metaphysical, being of sound-minds, but our fevers are covered in tares; where wheat is suffocated, and daughters mourn, and sons sit in silence. It couldn’t be real this measure of insanity: fixed in addictions; struggling for therapy; as challenged to believe in oneself. I remember mother—this extra of a woman, that far from healed; where hell was nurtured—for this need for evil, whereat, a child was dying. I remember abuse, the silence of walls, where dysfunction was normal. It had to be life, else for drama, to realize something’s askew. I’ve been stalking the deepest regions, and trekking the steepest deserts, pleading for this mindstate. The winters are war, this psychosomatic heartbeat, forever with grief; by which for stars, this inner indigo, a man for playing pretends. It couldn’t be real—these salient scars, to cause a psych to ponder; and what of father, an absentee, fraught with ghosts and goblins; where absence was fatal, for he opted for this wave, where I live compelled; as feeling discontent, this structure of malevolence, as inherited from negligence; where pain is ignorance, that kind from souls, to leave us at wit’s ends. I fathom anger, that type of silence, as to erupt as unforeseen; so I caution thoughts that closer to retreating as to realize that life is more than mere reactions. This makes me odd, even weak, where a psych is staring for a gesture; and it’s so ironic, where mother wanted obedience, and psychs desire anger. I can’t foretell, the script of an overseer, or the value of a psych’s pen; but life is motion, as more a product—of years dwelling dormant; or rather, this nightmare, alive in its rhythm, where one becomes a maniac, or even a psychiatrist.        

Precious II

I imagine you flying, through dirt and mire, as one buffing a mirror; I imagine love, to scrape the depth, as challenged not to fly. It mustn’t be real, this weakness for majesty, to sneeze into a goldmine. We love your eyes, your beige nature—as to ravish a campaign; and we love your arms, the reach of wiles, as gifted as Naomi; or better Ruth, as friction to a star, where constellations become souls. I love you dearly, to prophesy daily, in honor of a golden swan. We’ve felt a scar, to stitch it neatly—the roots of three petals; and love heard, to die this village, a colony of mysticism. We have lived—a modicum of rain, staring at silver reigns; we have lived in gray, a product of hope, where a promise wanes; to feel for pressure, the measures of life, where adults tread lightly; as to have a style, this soaring after sadness, this sore after sanity; to live through madness, this teenage angst, to cry after love; where such is young, too young to gamble, and too young to live; as born in graves, the movement of life, this churning of stars; as loving you more, this absent heartbeat, as tangible as a.m. volts; and thus, a heartbeat is present, as ever alive, this feeling we call holy; to have for gray minds, to feel such reality, to straddle that thin-line.     Awaken through glory, my love; see the blue ether; become the rising comet; as this is life, to plan through strain, to feel and flourish, and live to die, that closer to triumph. It mustn’t be real, this hint of depression, the pressure of a candidate; to have for seasons, the reasons of glory, to find as tried and bold; for we love it more, the coldness of sleight, the heights of tyranny, the angst of failure; to see it plainly, as born to see it, to know for treason: the highs and lows, the ins and ups, even that one decision—where hell took form, as not to let go, for a position had to be right.  We come to fire, as seeking flame, a patch of resilience; we come to life, as seeking stardom, as filled with restless nights. I’ve loved you more, these years of girth, surrounded about the guts; as dearly my name, and dearly my heart, forbidden to fail! 

Precious

Hi Love. Often a day is a mixture—of joys and pains, sights and affections; to possess this feeling, as if to do more, this thing of edification. Our interior life—drives us into planets, where we treat as treated within: those slight irritations, the gnawing impatience, that unconditional love; for self is a locomotive, writhing through exospheres, even a spacecraft. We follow patterns, as to grow in nature, to realize our triumphs. Often we know not, but then the morning rises, and we find ourselves participating. It’s hard to redeem us—this warfare friction, appeasing what doesn’t appease; where patience fades, as one becomes jaded, to yearn for adulthood; but the grains are wild, the furies are plural, the roles are meant for sages; to have one dream, as to chase a running shadow, to pause and regroup. It shouldn’t be real—this constant application, as to arrive in fragments. Its grand to have it—this dream of dreams, to conquer in portions; so grip and grab, and shine and live, as one centered in a dream; where the parts are plural, a dream within a dream, as for all to connect into a system. We challenge the word can’t, and question the word don’t, as we soar after secrets; if only to live, if only to aid, if only to feel; for things are empty, in a world that’s longing—for that something impermanent. It shouldn’t be real, where we grow and wane, and forever searching; to rise in fragments, as two pushing towards life, as forever in flux; where this is nuance, as to invest a soul, as opposed to tiptoeing. There’s a deep secret: we give that something to receive, as opposed to waiting until we feel worthless; but life’s adventure, fraught with trials, as to elevate conscienceness; and life is love, an intricate maze, where we rise to power. It shouldn’t be real—where we abandon self, as one chasing mirages; to love so loosely, and die so freely, to live a repeated cycle; whereat, is torture, a wish for doing it rightly, as to reap the friendships; as reputation is law, to see it soar, and feel for loved; so plan and fly, and fly and dive, as to swoop upon your dream.      

Threshed

We imagine silence—our voices stranded in ether, unlike to none; where ghosts tread, that secret feeling, embedded in rain; to drip—as a flaming faucet, to feel heat and sneeze. It’s a hay fever life, to have learned joy, to have learned pain. We relish more, and enjoy less, this reality in our spines. A smile carries something—for the keen of eyes—this something delusional, this fraction of personality, where it screams at ceilings, this cultured discontent. Our chase is radical—when life was milk and cookies, to have evolved in wisdom, skating through furies, that closer to calm, that closer to acceptance; to have lived so young, peeking at this brilliant light, as something dearly at truth; at which, is nausea, this dread of life, these existential jumping-jacks; to see the marble scream, as tired of its colors, as tired of its station—to know for death, as incremental madness, to have that one moment—as chasing that high, where it seemed so good, if not for catastrophe. It becomes a presence, absent at war, tugging at photographs, to distort images, to repeat a phrase—something that traumatized us; to have this feeling, to feel it subside, as to enjoy mirages. It’s a rare moment, as blank from self—to invest in calming thoughts; this something deliberate, more so than dreams, a friend of a mystic-storm; where joy is frequent, to manage this balance, as pursuing our horizons—as deep the atmosphere, this inner locomotive, to see the insides outwardly driven. It becomes truth—this uncanny essence, as to treat as treated within; to silence dialogue, as the wits to blossom, a letter on a petal; to enter the desert, as to plant a fountain, as to witness a triumph. There’s a warrior’s mind, filtered through courage, to see joy and seize it; as clouded to facts, this inner mechanic, to learn as we persevere; for life is motion, a series of wars, where often the outcome is love; to know for fragments, as every nuance a star, to have and hold and raise and rise; to invert the trauma, to find a medium, whereat, rejuvenation is essence; to revisit truths, as to examine an objective, informed through trial and error; where love empowers, though the tears may fall, threshed through contemplation.      

We’re Looking at Love, Unaware of Dynamics

We must adventure—into this sphere of mystery, as the love of a woman; to die her clench, or rise through sorrow, this breakthrough of affairs; to scold the coldness, as to pressure for warmness, as to realize brain control. I knew not love, this shadowy soul, as tattered as perceptions. I knew not love, steeped in gyration, as proclaiming love. I suppose it lives—this heated fever, as decorated in sentiments: to barely know a name, screaming this mortal scar, afraid to part for failure; as to love her more, the ways of psychiatrists, as given this chance to respond correctly; or better to submit, for power rules intentions, unless trained from within; to vie for freedom, this abstract concrete, as to know for differences: that I may exclaim contempt, or rather in favor, of something so jaded; as born a villain, to rob us of choice, that post five miles near a scar.     I drift…, for I want her more, as vacuumed in a haze; and I drift…, for I loathe her more, as confused by paradox. I remember love, as this radiant love, when kids kissed and giggled; and I remember love, this teenage angst, fighting to complete a session; and fighting not, as to know not, for all felt foreign and new. I remember attraction, the width of studies, to yearn for a poetess. I loved her more, as flowing so freely, and freely to flow. We spoke on cue, this impromptu, to wax and die as spoken through love. It felt for purpose, aside for conscious, to rattle a mind of cages; and then we died, as birds plucked from heaven, to escape into dungeons. I loved her more, as such a bruise on life, to meet her years later as literature. We felt aloof, as told to write, as flirting with images; to dine alone, as nothing but a book, to love this treasured soul. We fell for love, as ashamed dearly, the inanimate becoming a life-form. I watched her is silence, as to panic a feeling, as challenged to defend such admiration; to have that moment, spinning in diamonds, to walk away disenchanted.    

Sunrise Came at Midnight

Truth becomes foreign—this rippling vibration, this type of caprice; to know our secrets, as so embarrassing, a teacher as a judge. I felt more for languid, where hell shattered—and pieces fell into heaven; for us to morph, and muster courage, enough to walk the distance. I loved her more, to love her less, this inward affliction; to steer after souls, this wistful feeling, engaged in mystic rites; this type of passage, as long lives war, this Pyrrhic victory. I must explain—where victory is won—and so many perish. It’s akin to two lovers, where the one is favored, as to court a third; where to win the third, is to lose the two, as to find the third is far too feeble. I can’t imagine—this life of maybes—where that found good barely makes the mark; as one clad in shame, and sublime angst, this feeling under siege; but more to teachers, dying to forgive, that jittery intolerance; as built in faces, to know but three, where a generation of souls frequent; as truth is granted, this weary depiction, to find that that's good has been distorted; but it lives as truth, despite the infraction, where selfishness increases the venom. I ask for steepness, to forget our face, as one laden in visions; to know for purpose, the chatter of lines, this vest of yogic rites. I felt a thump, two minutes awake—our aces rotting in acid; and I thought a name, with no reply, to venture into a sphere. It’s a ghostly soul, a gothic heart—craving this vest of holiness; to love come dawn, this inward feeling, as invoked in one’s rest.     Examine the lines, as slowly as kittens, to witness this wolf in the background; as charged and fleeing—this specter of dreams, to embrace one’s mirror; as living to live, as opposed to dying—if they must be one! Oh this comely art, featured as a soul, too far to court, and too torn to please! I plead of us, this something explicable, this arctic dalliance; and I must explain—the webs and scars, as darts of furious projection; to dig and untale, the pits of purgatory, as to ballet a vest of energies; where we must derail, to see for magic—this graphic adventure.     

As to Decode Illusions

We say it in silence, this thing of chances, alert towards forgiveness; to be granted this life, as something reluctant, as something cherished; where most omit it, as to hold to death, our necks stiff with envy. We must avail, else for troubles, as far reaching as Africa; where children worship, while fathers perish, where mothers sacrifice hearts. Our souls are numbness, featured as Warlocks, conversing with Mystic Wiccans; to convert to Lights, this three in one, where remnants operate as spirits. It’s never freedom, from this grand illusion, as culling out such realities; to have this vision, this marvelous woman, walking the seven seas; wherewith, are virtues, a star as a dream, feathered in sorrows; as gripped in holiness, this glow of farewells, this inner jettison; to forgive a stranger, prior to a love one, for the stranger offers promise. Oh for heaven’s path, steeped in silken darkness, alive as if barely insane; the trickles of infusion, as our Mystic at a desk, alert to maintaining composure.     I deviate.     Are we there—drenched in realities, a product of mother’s illness; to have for death, this melodic grief, as baked in father’s psyche. I saw this woman, as a grandiose countenance, to see this woman, as a psychotic feature. It’s coming in segments, to have a friend—this one to comfort stages. I know of truth—this thing of souls, to see it in a mirror. We seem so large, gifted in mania, if only to emit intelligence. I thank the psychs, for such exhibition, to forewarn through animation; this thing of tables, where forgiveness wanes, from those so far the mountain.     I return.     I wanted forgiveness, for something so gray, to realize it belongs to nature; so why for death;—this need to feel, as if wrong for rightness? I must explain, as deep the scar, embedded in genetics; so why such pain, where medicine lives, as a viable force? I ask with purpose, to jog our wits, despite the myriad of infractions; for I’m not at fault, to have lived a bruise, where insights prove dramatic. It’s a tragic field, where hell is law, and one must cringe his life; as born to illness, destined to live this life, where God is a palm-print away. I sip to ponder, the longest love, ten tiers above sanity; where art is life, to imbue a swan, but death has taking the hem; as such to invoke, the spirit of Thecla, if only to ignite the spirits of fey.     I deviate.     I couldn’t forget;—this crossing of roads, as one to see his future; where Love was bold and fearless, adrift a scar, as benefiting the arts; albeit, for love, I’ve moved from love, to embrace this mystic passion. It mustn’t be life, and it must be life—this grand piano—this harp of dreams—this brief vacation.    

Love as Beauty, as Far Beyond Touch

It mustn’t be—this empirical love—fostered and forged forevermore; as less a dungeon, and more a fire—this mystical woman; to want for nothing, aside for everything, to have for spirit; as more to perish to feel that beat, as it soars into music. I love us dancing, to imagine love, as this grand piano; to touch the keys, floored at keystones, this method—staccato; to drift upon symbols, as your art flickers gently, this wave of brain-stuff. It’s meta this love, as dearly beyond—the touch of sensuous hands. I felt a prayer, to know for presence, the essence of your heart; to see us in song, this liturgy of ruth, as transformed into powers; wherewith, are dreams, bordered in scars—this dam as furious as a last kiss; where love is law, and law is fancy, to feel that very selfish. We waltz and fall, as to rise and waltz, that closer to this third heaven; where this is life, this deadly enchant—a voice upon a wing; where you never tried, as for being self, to intrigue the unconscious; for this was folly, where love was law, as engraved in psyches. I dare to say it, this burning sensation, as filtered through human souls; to rise in passion, to finally grip love, as something innocuous. It must be gentle, as an infant’s palm, where we dare not see deception. I want this life, where humans are infants—in mere design. I ask for much, a man of chess, tired of pushing pieces. It must be real, a moment in a vacuum, where love is pure insanity; to have that gift, as blaming for self, the ruin of that gift. There must be more, aside for sex, and off to that gray land; and there must be more, than multiple partners, as hoping one sticks around. We want purpose, as known decisions, to have the one we have chosen. I fathom this lot, to love as an infant, to cherish mystic prayers; as fallin’ to rise, and rising to fall, this cycle of love.  

Love as Crumbled Courage

It’s etched in flesh—this immortal faith, as a Latin portrait; it’s fevered in minds, the grind of this love, this internal technique. We try to grasp it, this wave of geese, plucking our inner pain. It’s ever abstract, to love this vision, a woman twice his wisdom; as born to cherish, this inner symbol, as fleeing and flying to destiny. There’s room for persons—that much in sweat, soaking in scented smaze; this smoke of hour’s, belonging to none, as even a soaring rocket—this cry! We bring it to concrete, this melodic woman, seated in stirring emotions. It’s a core affect, as painted in psyches, ever to move his loins. Let us fall, into swampy lagoons, without uttering a word. Let us speak as bodies, oiled in fevers—and falling into dungeons. We claw forever, scratching and gnawing, as sensuous as chiseled experience; to move with grace, as meditated in Zen—this churning passion. He lied to live it, to set it at bay—this vague voiceprint; to hold her dearly, to hear her words, bellowed through interiors; the fragments of tapestries; the language of lust; as sheltered in integrity; to have and hold and love—this woman of a thousand grains. It takes for courage, to scold a sanctum, as this danger to shift; if left to fancy, as a crowded bar, where she spoke to his eyes. He saw for sadness, this hidden fruit, a propeller in a dungeon. He left and cried, those nights of mania, ten steps into a shadow. It mustn’t be life, to love as pressure, a soul destined for estrangement; to ask for courage, to live this life, to experience beyond words; this gravel of souls, this shackle of stars, reaching and groping for more. He could never return, for folly is grand, or to recapture this stolen glance. Our tides are abstract. Our concrete is liquid. The ocean is speaking of love; as to voyage forever, weaving and winding, as woven into a crevice. We shift and turn and love and die—if more to cherish this seething sky;—it couldn’t be real, this writhing essence, as was given to flesh; and it mustn’t be real, this pure attraction, where life concerns pushing pieces; to hold for capture, the watery sun, a shattered art.

A Thousand Faces

Such an hour’s ritual, a vest to open, stirring into dreams; a bit bemused, this amazing light, featured in a wave; as graves to stars, or stars to graves—so many years this turmoil; to love this meter, this inner twine, this jute of a thousand faces; as born to deaths, this outward Eden, for one a beast to earth; where a baby wails, while one is silent, to exit Paradise. We cry aloofly, as distant phantoms, this craving for comforts; wherewith, are values, this lavish instinct, hereby, to strangle the cynic. We perish as slaves, to have for one nun—this voice pushing concrete. Its abstract ink, as cherished in vines, as cultured as pruned souls; to laugh the itch, this pinch of violence, displayed in feyic tones. I love a swan, this inward gear, as to condition his actions; this tension-flame, alive a dream—raging into thrumming arts; as one for visions, to evade this curse—this essence found in Scripture. I find for souls, our walks of skeletons—that ritual of cemeteries; to stir a bolt, as one unscrewed, to pour forth into a black-dungeon. We scream at tar, as loving this life, but confused daily. It’s, hereto, a scream, to finally arrive, as one slanted from pressures; for mourning is light, the bank’s contrition, as drawing equity; to stir a grain, to harness a root, as indeed to sever a growth. I see her swimming, from ocean to shore, hair as curly as the deepest twirls. It couldn’t be fair, to die as pearls, as to live as diamonds; but this is life, this grand in-between, where parents ruin innocence. Our days are young, where nights are visions, alive in a sudden instance; to feel this pleat, or rather this thumb, or to glow as fiery souls. It mustn’t be life—to magnify sorrow, immersed in a slew of proclamations; where death is feeble, for the love of a swan, as knowing our outcome. I try to fathom, this torn adventure, where hatred is a foreign fugitive; to outrun earth, as challenged this night, where the two are one: this velvet star, this vivid angst, a woman as this child of a soul; and ever this art, this beating sky, infused by a thousand faces.   

Gestures & Wiles

It’s mediocre—as to rebuke justice, as to hope for peace; where she never smiles, or at least it’s rare, this woman of a hundred faces. We’re running thin, aboard a vessel, where gestures are peeking. It was never poker, but sheer the flame, as to witness a breakthrough. I’m not impressed, as one for silence, as one for vocals; to have a dream, where therapy is life, as afflicted upon self; to grow in fractions, this exponential charm, that invades silence. We’ve touched concrete, this abstract fusion, to paint in 3D—this life of owls, as watching the nights, to reappear come sunfall. I thought to love it, this ambivalent feeling, as one a bit for sickness; to play its worth, and morph into a giant, if only a gripping palm. It mustn’t be life—this game of pieces, pushing and pulling rooks; as if to castle, to outwit fate, to put it off but a moment. It couldn’t be real, this school of manners, where most are pantomime; to have and fold, and fold with grace, this pace of serpents.

It’s been some time, as living through deaths, to capture but one song; this inner delusion, as to entertain, if but a moment in space. I cherish our prose, and prize our spirits, fully infused by merits. Indeed, to drift—as born in gridlock, galloping a vat of stars; to have for seconds, this one enchant, as furious as a dying love; to look and perish, in golden eyes, as one to condemn the sun. It’s been so long, as to ponder gestures, as one known for mania; in which to love, this feral avoidance, to know for a purple tear. I wipe and wane, somewhere the crowd, echoing this deep silence; where hearts quake, and souls print, a wealth of mystic casualties. I’m going afar, as sitting in stillness, this therapeutic dynasty. I’m falling adrift, while gripping a chair, alert to finger a spade. Its myth to life, and soul to dagger, as one pierced by sheer particles; to love it more—this vague encounter, where too much is overkill, and too little is dearth; but this is life, asearch for balance, where the first word lingers in blood.   

Tragedy

I misknow you—like a dream, attached to one sensation. Our words were clichés, images forged in gossip, this surface affair. I couldn’t watch you, affixed to one position, as to avoid our faces. We died living this lie—as angry with reality, to find fault with everything but mirrors. We cut a cake, this fraudulent pastry, struggling with a past affair.

I carried burdens, and gambled your pain, to glimpse the change. You were sullen and losing comforts, as to suddenly resurrect. It becomes this chase, a search for saviors, where loyalty is raving laughter. I perished as you flourished—this dreaded affliction. It was some type of horrible, where addicts squirm, offended by such behavior.

Dear Affliction: I give it back—the hurt and pain, the deep ambivalence; I give it back—the shallow love, that image of perfection, grounded in a series of lies; and I give it back, this fake feeling, to ignore tragedy, as one trying at alchemy; indeed, I give it back—the harnessed angst, the multiple glasses, the multiple sacks; as one running, while sitting, where walls collapsed in seasons.

We tried to by it—the glory of stars, while spinning frustration. You wanted an ex, as found in me, where the pain would vanish. I wanted a myth, some sort of love that superseded the fraudulent. I wanted life, but couldn’t give life, as one flawed and grieving. I knew not of love, as to accept the shadows, as one found proud—where hell was heaven, this distorted view, a sequence of excuses—to have one moment, this infinite wrench, twisting and distorting life.  

Oh the heartache—racing through mental lights, to endure on both sides: one to endure self, as two to endure us, as too to endure you—this flagrant vandal—and I a villain, to have but a taste of us; the things we gave, the minds we scattered from, and the frictions we afflicted. The vibe was wrong, as a minute to adjust, as a lifetime to mourn.   

Evading Self

I used to run from self, this futile chase, abased at our core; the future was hectic, filled with memories—a psych and her inclinations; to surrender checkmates, this heightened sensitivity, as one hyper for normalcy. We mourn for patience, gorging gummy bears—and grape wine. I wanted life, affixed to trauma, therewith, your smile. I know I drift, but art is vision, to stir it in music; to have for spaces, eyes glowing in majesty, this esoteric dream. Your eyes were moist, as red around the rims, to suffer my gaze. I used to run from self, to meet me in you—such particles of death; and I used to lie to self, to pretend for perfect, where psychs invaded my dream; but I remembered love, even its heartache, as attached to sensations; to find and leave, this inner intimacy, for pages flipped through violence;—but not as physical, but rather, as mental—this season of introjects; to have this touch, the measure of our distance, writhing in eczema, as nerves rough, stressed and abandoned. I met you in me, this bay of wolves, forcing to surface this grief; whereat, to wrestle, a fleet of metaphors, chasing a mirage; this inner illusion, founded in realities, but dearly delusional; wherewith, confliction, an inner turmoil, and sniffling and sneezing. I used to run from self, until it all caught up—the demons and screaming and tears and fusions. I used to die to self, as one dying to live, where living was an anomaly! It’s more a vacuum, this station of frets, this inner Batman; as featured in wonders, this Lucky Star charm, abandoned to stress and scars. It mustn’t be life, to have you as a moment, that grieved in its essence; wherewith, are bars, this inner vexation, to wrestle bleeding thoughts. It’s more to find you, this bedroom ritual, as alone in meditation; to touch for chi, as looming in light—this ancient technique; where love is granted, albeit, aloof, as personal as goosebumps.  

The Lux of Spirit

We’ve named a feeling—with something insufficient, a pier of vague words; as to pinpoint frequencies, this claim to holiness, this air of pomp. It must have been morning, as time is a blur, featured in dialogues;—to grapple the esoteric, our hearts as jets—soaring through tapestries.

We want for gods, a feeling in Namaste, as one chiseled with flame;—this born infusion, an effusion of power, this volt of thunder; for a path was forged, a kettle is whistling, and something’s in our dining rooms: as formed in crystals, as alive in chandeliers—this essence as

founded in a soulcave; to die this living, as living this death, forever so close to vagueness; but not in substance, this fiery furnace, but in identity—this elusive entity. We name to identify, this linguistic war, as far reaching as conventions; to possess a vision, this luminous force, as

invading the totality of selves; to rev so gently, as charged as engines, surging through this universe; but it couldn’t be real, such distinctive feelings, where threads cross-pollinate. Our art is chi-bound; our dreams are tangible; where Spirit is art founded in fey. It couldn’t be real—as

grand intensity, an effusion of warmth, to appear an' vanish; as followed by permeation, this heartcave feeling, as soaring through mindcaves; for there’s mystery, grounded in humans—this hour morphing into darkness;—to seize light, a second of a heartbeat, flipping through lux.         

May We Zest Towards It

I’m slanted and mire and brisk and curt and centered at this awesome juncture; at which are eyes, this beige encounter—this voltage that entails! I fathom proximity, but never the whereabouts—this thunder clapping in volumes.     I saw a face, as to hear a voice, speaking the inexorable.  

     We sighted gestures, but a moment in whispers, gauging such trespass; herewith are fevers—soaring through dungeons—as ever this key. 

     We brought fire this Indian flame as scheduled to evolve—the torture of such patience; to have but symbols, alive as heartbeats, ever this inner echo.     Sparks become magnets, which to, become anthems, hereto, are wellborn waves—that chisel phantoms—this plural reality.

     We dine upon lightning, where lux is freedom, as engaged in yogic shadows; this fraction of words, this action of souls, these mirrors of an axis. We sit about silence, where essence rises, favored by concentration; to lengthen souls, this arctic communication, to give at least one last death.

     We wing and song and song and wing while sitting in utter volume; wherewith is language, the intensities of a hunch, and at once, to cull an inner thump.

     You becomes plural, as to partake of fire, this fury sculpting calmness; and you becomes one, a nation of souls, courting comforts; to have experience, as outsoaring faith, where the two find a home…[but] what for this power, a Dead Sea Soul, a city of Sibyllines? I ask—founded in mystery, as to ponder your chi, alive in frankincense.        

I found joy; I found death. I found pain; it became intimate.

It’s so unusual, to miss it in its absence, to wonder of anomalies. It became a friend, as familiar as spirits, to experience joy as a breach; for joy peters out, where pain takes a break, but ever present. We know one to meet the other; where to miss joy is to feel pain, and to know pain, is to yearn for joy. It’s a mythic cycle, a mystic memoir, a talking credenza; to love one and mourn the other, or praise one and embrace the other. We come to terms, either in error or glory—failing our daydreams. We exhaust joy, and measure pain, delving into creativity, either way.

We loved her as adolescents. We grieve her as adults. It becomes evident, albeit, subtle, we mourn joy! She becomes pantomime, posing through traumas, to often miss the mark. She’s, too, a manikin, a bit overly compulsive, this infection fleeing through us. We search the compulsion, a feeling of disappointment, where she rises suddenly; even through pain, where eyes water, these tender mirrors;—but oh this mystery, as divested of joy, where she peeks and runs—to augment pain, this awkward relationship.

Pain was a luxury. This type of discipleship…as pain is recurrent! We speak of was, for this lifetime cinema, where joys are intermitted. Why is this life? It can’t be decoded. It can’t be deciphered. We wander in passions, awaiting this segment, to feel her fading; but what is this life, aside for flux, as one cleaving to providers? Such ushers joy, our inner vacuums, to render disappointment; therewith, is chasing, pleading for joy, where one is depleted. This wave infuriates, running as to catch up, as catching up to run—from this furious friend, an inner contraption, this acrobatic evasiveness.   

Featured in Three Lives

If we must remember, let us live that moment, shackled to something special; our lengthened selves; our grandiose wishes; even that thing in dreams. I’m enraptured—this age—and oh so young—influenced by convergence: torn by evil; enlove with gestures; courting this belle of our ceremony; where urges become sermons, to rhapsodize of likeness, this swan experiencing our likeness. With a grimace I measure—our sheer contempt—the fluoride of our pressures; where-was, this infamous charm, one to appreciate deception; for life was grand, to love and be loved—so young to perish. We punctured stars, and dangled from exospheres, tripping and falling through Neptune. We were oh so shy, engaged in raptures, with kinetics to gaze afar. Our swan—this volt of fevers—as dancing this pause—this life; in fire this turmoil, to count twenty minutes ‘til—this internal voyage; where hate infuses, this unrequiting nuance, to receive pure sorrow; but more we live, as a think-tank for Precious, born to petition our Flame. Its cosmic love, and comet force, driven to inebriate hearts: this warming presence; our daughter’s essence; where one is despised for knowing deceit. This becomes life—to feel so grand, and realize that nothing was secret. If we must remember, let us live that moment, shackled to something special; for years blossom, a petal on a swan, but wilting partially; whereat, are confusions, where adults feel shame, for one so young was altered with guile; to which, it becomes a legend, for so many years of fomenting, where reality becomes a mourned intrusion. Oh not to shatter—thereby, to perish, roaming an internal asylum; where wages are sin, and pleasures are fabricated—this life of profane anger: the here for now; the there for comforts; even this moment as reaching with caution. I ask not for love, but rather for decency—for years have churned in pollution; whereby, the days—register in silence, this vessel becoming jaded; where love is measured—by words versus actions, where we dare to escape; but every jitter—proves insanity, where every gesture becomes a ploy.

My dearest swan, the nights are segue, pushing to rekindle daylight; for each is a cycle, reclaimed in psyches, vying for this thing of clarity; wherewith, are motives, where a future is altered, merely for a partial purpose. I can’t but see it—as one that lived it, as to hold so much in reserves; but love be gentle, and love be kind, else love is sheer deception; thereby, to rupture finally, into parts of labor, where work is required to redeem sanity.

We love so desperately, where this is not life, as to reach and force a pledge of allegiance; herewith, are truths, to scavenge every crevice, to forage every forest, if merely for redeeming illusions. I’ve come to us, as one proven stalwart, and I impart to us this mystic rope; where hearts beat, churning through realities, as to harvest the horizon; therewith, are wishes, something tamed through years, something yearning for arrivals; but sit in freedoms, awakened in silence, investigating sheer mystery.   

The Years Are Many

Let us remove our masks—as tired deeply, of forfeiting love. I remember psychoses, this fatal woman, as sitting in mania. I gazed sharply, offended by distance, to know we couldn’t give. The weeks were hell, reaching out to silence, as opposed by a mirror. We must of seen it, this mystic union, as two musing upon beauty; to find for cultured, this element of death, grounded in illusions; to have reality, this form of naivety, as gray as fallen moons; but more her tides, running our shores, as absence and footprints. I hate to love her, as gripping our guts, this furious anxiety; to rock in motion, a swan as a rubric, to return is segments. There’s faultless passion, engraved in hearts, as for concentration and fiery thumps; not to mention Spirit, this hatless woman, to generate such holiness. We crossed a path, to witness features, as crazed as monsters. Our heads were shadows, frightened with fury—this caution driving us forward; to have but locks, or more for ethics, as galvanized as a burgundy stallion. It must have been real, so many years of fey, where particles sprinkle from skies. Our vault has ruptured, our souls are volts, and our vision is vivacious; to sink while swimming, to unplug a sink, a faucet dripping into factions; as born to love, to feel for hearts, this mighty intuition; but never would, for sheer respect, to see us and die while breathing. The days are stronger, to resist this persistence, as infatuated with the skills of psychs; for life has changed, as fallin’ and rising, wherewith, are skeletons; as bare as bones, this inner sanctum, to speak it as Ezekiel. I apologize dearly, for so much unsaid, where it was easy to run; at least for sight, the deepest paradox, to pause while driven through motion; where love is patience, and more for hells, as granted this febrile gift. We must pursue it, this deepest pleat, as to tap into something surreal; and petition life! 

Grimace Sensations

I move in haste to participate—in wainscot ethics; as born in sequence, to feel out of time, to anticipate catastrophes. It’s a velvet sickness, this pensive dimension, as forced into slavery; where love is mystic, this joy embedded in sorrow, to have but seconds of pleasures; as misunderstood, peering at glossy eyes, this person for addictions. I art in silence, this ruby wine, this russet heartbeat; to call in loudness, this gravid sensation, to grieve this woman; where lines churn, as eyes mizzle, this pistol for inflections; as greeted sorely, the scent of amber, or even Eternity; to cry to live it, as livid as owls, forced to watch in silence: the massive takedowns; the furious glee-horns; this feature girded in temptations; to want for love, this pictureless course, shredded in academia. I hated to feel it, this internal lose, where love grew condemnations; as born to time, to suffer this ingest, to remold a sense of joy. There’s sheer abandon, this feral kiss, abed an abrasion; wherewith, are arms, this furious jewel, afire this nightmare; in which, was life, the giving of turmoil, as to sculpt a poet. We try for sights, as blinded as infatuation—this internal gravity—the pash of souls, to court a lover, and realize it wasn’t heaven; to have but seconds, to determine a future, a bit too audacious. We revved an engine, this inner ballet, as to discount angels; whereby, a flurry—of pagan rites, to harness this imagination. It mustn’t be life, as spread so thin, longing for eternity; and it mustn’t be life, as treasured in hells, to receive what wasn’t given. It’s near abysmal, this inner scene—the dalliance of one out of focus; to build with hay, as searching for concrete, to wonder of disaster; therewith, affliction, as one unknowing, to grind a peg into his skull. Our tides are shifting, as comely the depth—this inexorable specter; where love is void, as it never was—but a moment of sensations.     

To Enter a Lantern

We watch for countenances, this contrite intrusion, this homespun feeling; as luminous chains, fevered forever, enamored by chaos; to dream through weathers, this withered soul—the wreckage of a gray ship; as living an apparition, this invisible man, as making home in a basement. We chime on occasion, this something so partial, as to retreat with a grimace. We tremble and fall, our knees scraped deeply, at home with such chaos. I love us not, to have loved before—the doors leading to a village; where souls quiver, an arrow to a heart, as chastising cupid. Oh for keystone trauma, a psych as a by-passer, a teacher as a phantom; to pardon a symphony, as choked as history—this immortal flame! I’ve tried to leave it, as pulled by currents, a woman at the tenth tier of her mind. I’ve shared a secret, for the keen of eyes, to see us drifting through twilights. Every atom’s a delicacy—the strata of a psychologist, as celestial as a nun’s photograph; and we mustn’t perish, this vague retreat, to find for self this grave addiction; to hold but flames, this laudable symmetry, as balanced as shock-therapy. I fret the crevices, where serpents spin—the conscience as steep as jadedness; to live in vogue, for but a second in time, this reverie of discourse; as born too early, or was it too late—this state of limbo; to know that it was, this thing it becomes, as barefaced as a captured dream. We read the turns, as churned in violence, to possess such composure; as sheer anomaly, as to elude the cycle, wherever it claims its opus. It becomes a dream, this invaluable star, as scarred as a billion souls; therewith, is passion, as connected to ghosts—a dream within a dream; to sparkle in fatigue, as born to consciousness, as to deprive oneself of rest; for mere the purpose, of triggering the bipolar, a secret we must live; but it’s more than life, this feeling of haste, to organize disorder.